


The Sun and the Moon

by BlueJay_Silvertongue



Series: Modern Age WonderPoison [5]
Category: DC Extended Universe, Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/F, Hades & Persephone au, If you're just here for the smut you want Chapters 9 and 10, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rope Bondage, She's not the Queen of the Amazons for no reason folks, Slow Burn, Teasing, Two older ladies proving that love is not only for the young, more tags will be added as story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2019-09-04 21:44:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 123,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16797634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueJay_Silvertongue/pseuds/BlueJay_Silvertongue
Summary: "Kal-El is tearing apart the universe, looking for his mother... I have heard rumors. Rumors of kidnapping, abduction. They say she was carried away, unwilling and lamenting, and brought to the Underworld.”When the Day falls in love with the Night... the origin story of the unlikely romance between Queen Hippolyta and Martha Kent.





	1. The Likeness of Martha Kent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story picks up where Hippolyta and Martha Kent's burgeoning romance left off in Justice For All, but reading that fic is not necessary to understand this one! 
> 
> _A quick recap: Hippolyta and Martha met after Diana was killed battling Steppenwolf. Hippolyta sacrificed herself in order to bring her daughter back to life, and was eventually named Hades' successor. She soon after appears on Martha's doorstep in Kansas and brings her (willingly) to the Underworld._

_“Who is she?”_

_“Who is whom?”_

_“The woman who keeps breathing your name up above.”_

_“She is a woman.”_

_“I know as much. What woman?”_

_“That is none of your concern.”_

_“Hippolyta!”_

_“Have I not ordered you to train the armies in preparation for War? Why do you dally and listen for the prayers that echo across the empty sky?”_

_“As your General, you know I have done all you have asked and more… and as your sister, I take no small delight in the color of your cheeks—”_

_“Antiope!”_

_“I trained every Amazon on Themyscira, my Queen. I know the timbre of their voices, the cadence of their speech. This is no Amazon who so profoundly grieves your death.”_

_“Death has made you bold, sister.”_

_“You remember me poorly then… I have been as bold since I raced you to the surface of the sea.”_

_“She is a woman. From Man’s World. She has a kind heart. And a strong spirit. And...”_

_“And...?”_

_“And her eyes dance like starlight.”_

* * *

Martha Kent opens her eyes.

The ceiling above is flickering with shadows, as if from a candle left unattended. Martha blinks and raises her head, wondering if perhaps she’d forgotten…

And then there is the muted ring of steel from outside, and she remembers.

_Very well. Tell me, then, what it is you want, Martha Kent._

Martha sits up, pushing aside the silky sheets and heavy bedcover, and her feet swing over the side of the bed to touch cold stone. A loose cotton robe she’s never seen before whispers over her skin, and she runs a hand through her tangled hair as she makes her way across the floor, following the sound to a tall, narrow window covered over with heavy velvet drapes. Her fingertips brush lightly over the expensive material, then she cautiously tugs it aside an inch, peering through the crack to the world outside.

It is just dawn. The sky is that peculiar shade of quiet grey that is so familiar to her: it is the same light that Jonathan would stroll into every morning, hat in hand, whistling like the farmer he was; the same light that she would glimpse through the window over the kitchen sink before she hurried down the hall to wake her sleepy son up for school…

The horizon is glowing like embers in the fire. Dark, jagged mountains line the edge of the world like brushstrokes, and the light rising up from behind their towering peaks gives the illusion that the world beyond is ablaze. Martha stares at the smoky wisps of clouds rolling over the cliffs, and shivers. The forest that stretches down from the foothills is full of shadows, barely visible in the stifling haze **.** But there, at a distance, at the edge of the city, is a long field of green. And upon that field is a figure in golden armor.

It is her.

She is there, a sword in each hand, battling five warriors at once. Women in armor observe from the sidelines, weapons in hand, itching for their turn. And when one, or all of the Queen’s assailants go flying, they rush forward to take the place of their fallen comrades. They are so far off, and Martha’s eyes are so old, yet it is as if she is standing there beside them, privy to each blow and scuffle and grunt and jabbed heel or elbow and muttered curse…

What would they do, if they brought their Queen to her knees? Would she accept defeat, even as they had her at their mercy? Or would she continue to fight, fists against steel, helpless rage against raw power?

There is a shout, and Martha startles, nearly dropping the wadded up ball of velvet curtain she had been gripping too tightly in her fists. She winces and hastily smooths it out between her palms, hoping desperately that it is not wrinkled—

“Enough!”

A warrior in dark armor breaks ranks from the bystanders, and the rest of the women lower their weapons and begin to mill about, roughly embracing and congratulating one another, collecting weapons from the grass, helping themselves to pitchers of water. The Queen throws back her head, her glittering smile of triumph visible even from the palace window. The warrior who had shouted approaches and claps her shoulder, offering her a jug of something that is certainly stronger than water, judging by its dark, rich color. They drink together, watching as the last of the warriors make their way to other parts of the training field, or into the city streets lined with homes and shops.

The dark-armored warrior seizes the pitcher from the Queen and downs the rest of the wine, ignoring her ruler’s indignant look. But she raises her arm, her face still half concealed with the finest Themysciran bronze, and points—and Martha lets out a small gasp of fear, because the Amazonian General is pointing directly at _her._

Hippolyta flashes an apologetic smile in her direction, then bats the General’s hand aside, seizes the pitcher from her, and tosses it to a waiting attendant. And the shorter Amazon’s laugher is left in her Queen’s wake, as she steps forward, and then she is _there,_ as suddenly as if she’d teleported, alighting onto Martha Kent’s window frame in less than a second

Martha drops the curtains with a gasp and backs away as the Queen steps down into the room, taller than the tallest man in Kansas—and more powerful, too, than the most powerful being on Earth. Her presence permeates the room, pushing against her with almost tangible force, and Martha swallows hard, unable to look the goddess in the face.

“N—nice outfit.”

A hint of a confused smile lifts the corner of the Queen’s mouth, and Martha takes a deep breath. She’s kissed those lips, felt those strong arms around her, touched that golden hair. This is the woman who rescued her, who she’s been thinking about without end for the last three weeks, and who brought her _here._ There’s nothing to be afraid of...

“Are you well?” Hippolyta’s eyes have darkened as they flicker over her petrified face, and Martha raises a hand, waving it aimlessly.

“It’s fine. It’s, you just...”

Sometimes at night, she still remembers the aliens that strolled towards her across her front lawn, demanding _the Codex…_ or the car that waited for her by the dumpster behind the diner, and that terrifying flight in a cramped box, that long, long hour, waiting for Superman...

“Come here,” Martha says, her voice trembling, but she opens her arms, and a woman brighter than the sun itself steps forward, kneels down at her feet, her face upturned, and she wraps her strong, armor-clad arms around her waist. And Martha works her hands through that golden hair, plants a tender kiss on that cold forehead, and frowns.

“Do gods not... sweat?”

And Hippolyta laughs.

“Are you disappointed?” she teases, reaching up to tuck a strand of gray hair behind her ear.

“I’m a farmgirl, Your Majesty… if we don’t sweat, we don’t eat.”

The words sound terribly awkward in her own ears. The woman is _thousands_ of years old—surely she knows everything there is to know about farming, and the human cooling system, and the way in which a woman dances around another woman, drawing her softly and sweetly into her own world. The Queen smiles, clearly enjoying the effect she’s having on Martha’s racing heart, and she leans forward.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, her voice a low, seductive murmur in her ear.

Martha stares. A flush is spreading over her cheeks, and something is clenching uncomfortably in her insides—her heart, perhaps, or somewhere lower—these brazen, shameless Amazons, and their magnificent Queen with her hands planted firmly on her hips, and her wide, knowing smile...

“They will be serving the morning meal soon,” she continues, an eyebrow raised at Martha’s eager silence. “I have instructed them to prepare food for you, if you wish to partake—”

“Oh! Yes, yes, I would like, yes, breakfast sounds wonderful,” Martha says quickly, looking away, staring across the room, trying to avoid the piercing eyes that are missing none of her embarrassment.

Hippolyta’s hand reaches up to cup her burning cheek, and she gently tips her head down, and Martha leans forward and closes her eyes as the Queen’s lips meet hers. Her breath is cold, her lips are cold, her palm is cold, and Martha shivers as her other hand settles on her waist, a thumb lightly circling her hip bone… but her gasps are certainly not from the cold.

Too late, she realizes the woman has risen to her feet, and she is pressed flush against frosty armor, her head almost parallel with the stone floor as she is leaned over backwards, laughing helplessly as gravity itself becomes meaningless in the arms of a goddess…

And then Hippolyta pulls away, just slightly, just enough for her to lean in and brush Martha’s lips again with her own.

_“Come.”_

And then she is set her upright, and Martha clings to those muscled forearms as she plants her feet onto the ground, and then the Queen steps away and sweeps her hand across the room.

“I will meet you outside.”

And then she is gone, leaving Martha stunned and alone. For a long moment, she simply stands, her living heart thudding happily out to the quiet room, then she runs a hand through her hair again, just to have something to do, just to distract herself from the burning in her lower belly—

The Queen had gestured toward the bed, where a simple wooden wardrobe stands, and where Martha’s Kansas clothes are laid out over a chair. She steps forward, almost as if in a daze, and her hands have already outstretched towards her plaid shirt before she realizes what she is doing.

_What will the other Amazons think…_

She saw them down below, hair braided, armor gleaming, and those who were not warriors were strolling the streets in elegant robes and tunics—and Martha is going to sit down to eat with them while wearing worn jeans and an old shirt and her yard-work sneakers? She wouldn’t even go to lunch with a _coworker_ in a getup like that.

Martha mutters and tosses aside the shirt, smoothing a hand down the fine cotton of her night robe, then she pulls open the wardrobe. There are only a few outfits hanging within, all simple and beautiful, with yards and folds of material, and slim silver or gold belts. They are displayed like the clothes on the Sears mannequins, but when Martha pulls one towards her, it is only a clever metalwork frame underneath. She presses the linen tunic up against her body and stares at her reflection in the mirror.

And the likeness of Martha Kent stares back at her.

Every morning in Kansas, she would glance at herself in the mirror as she combed her hair and brushed her teeth, but she never looked at herself too closely. There was always something pulling her along: bills to pay, a dog to feed, a house to clean, a truck to repair, a farm to upkeep, customers to help, diners to serve…

But now, her face is flushed, and her eyes are shining, as if she can’t stop smiling. The goddess woman had tucked her hair behind her ears, but it still spills down over her shoulders, brushing against white cotton and bare skin. She had always lingered over the worry lines in her forehead, the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, the sagging skin around her neck, but today, it’s as if the stress of that world and that life have fallen away: Clark is alive, the invaders were dead, or driven out—or whatever had happened to them, and everything was going to be okay.

And there is someone... someone who cares about her.

“My lady?”

Martha whirls around, clutching the material against her body. An Amazon is standing behind her, tall and beautiful, her head upright and back straight like a free woman, but her hand is outstretched, and she says without judgement,

“May I assist you?”

And Martha wavers for a moment. But in all her years as a farmer’s wife, and all her days as a saleswoman at Sears, she’s never worn Ancient Greek garb, and already, she can see that the garment must be draped in a particular fashion, the fabric gathered and belted in a way that no one has ever worn clothes in the United States outside of Shakespeare plays. And the Amazon’s eyes are kind, respectful. Martha looks away, then nods tightly.

“Is… is this appropriate for breakfast?”

The Amazon looks surprised as she takes the tunic from Martha’s hands and spreads it out over the rumpled bed sheets.

“There is no code of dress. Io, the blacksmith, often arrives to the morning meal with nothing but a hammer.”

Martha stares as the woman nonchalantly slips the night robe from her shoulders and drapes the long sheet of linen over her body in its place.

“...will she be there today? Like that?” she asks, her voice high and squeaky from the rush of unwanted images flooding her mind. The Amazon fastening the golden belt around her waist laughs softly, then steps away.

“Her Majesty requested that we do nothing to upset her guest from Man’s World.” Dark, knowing eyes meet hers in the mirror, then a bronzed arm reaches out to pluck the night robe from the bed, hanging it up in the wardrobe’s depths. “Io has been instructed to be dressed.”

Martha breathes a sigh of relief, and the Amazon turns and stares at her curiously.

“What is it, is my dress…?” Martha asks, glancing at her reflection in the mirror and then down at her own outfit.

“No, it is… you are alive,” the girl says hesitantly, as if she’s afraid that she’s mistaken.

“Yes? What about it?”

The Amazon is staring at her, _as if she’s seen a ghost,_ Martha Kent thinks, a hint of a smile touching her lips, but it drops again once more as she realizes that the girl is still staring uncertainly at her.

“Is there something wrong with that?” Martha finally asks, reaching out and laying a hand on her cold arm. “It’s all right, dear. I’d really rather you told me if there’s a problem.”

The Amazon shakes her head, but not before Martha catches a glimpse of the wonder creeping into her eyes.

“She must truly love you, my lady.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that—”

“Come now,” the Amazon says, ignoring her modest self-depreciation, closing the wardrobe with a click, and beckoning her across the room to the archway. “Our Queen is waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! This story was my ~~as of yet uncompleted~~ NaNoWriMo project, and I'll be updating twice every weekend in December. I know it's absolutely a crack!ship, but it's my baby, and I hope you'll enjoy the ride. :)
> 
> P.S. The title is from Mae's glorious song with the same name!


	2. Propositioning a Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast at New Themyscira.

The Queen has draped her cold armor with a long, fur-lined robe of purple wool. It sweeps along the floor a good two feet in her wake, and Martha thinks that it must be by some magic that it is completely spotless and unfrayed. She moves through the crowd, her eyes softening just slightly as they meet Martha’s over the crowd of tall warriors, and then she has turned away once more, greeting and grasping the hand of a muscular woman in a leather tunic.

“The armor is for show, anyway,” a new voice says, interrupting Martha from her thoughts. The dark-armored warrior from the training field is standing beside her, a faint smile on her lips. She’s watching as the Queen strolls towards them, solemnly welcoming and nodding to her subjects. Martha gives the smaller woman a double take, thinking perhaps she had mistaken Martha’s Amazonian-garbed figure for someone else, but that proud chin rises and clear blue eyes stare up at her from beneath a bronze headpiece.

“I—excuse me?”

“The armor,” the warrior repeats, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper as Hippolyta approaches, frowning. “It is useless, a false protection: Steel cannot cut her. Force cannot move her. Even when she was alive, she was undefeated on the battlefield. In the _bedroom,_ however—”

“Is my sister harassing you?”

“—harnessing her was no difficult feat. Nay, my Queen, I am merely regaling your guest with tales of our fine, Themysciran horses,” Antiope says, grinning and inclining her head at her scowling sister. “I daresay some have been let loose for far too long, have they not? I can think of a few wild horses within our borders that could use a good taming—”

“Spare us from your shameless innuendo, General,” Hippolyta interrupts, pushing her sister aside, and looking down at Martha’s burning face. She hesitates for a moment, as if struggling to find some word, but she finally nods in the direction of Antiope’s figure, and says,

“This is Antiope, general of the armies of the Underworld… and my younger sister. I trust she has made herself known to you.”

“Indeed, I have—”

“Then away with you,” Hippolyta orders, laying a protective hand on Martha Kent’s shoulder and glaring at her sister.

“As my Queen commands,” Antiope says cheerfully, then she is already sauntering away, greeting the others moving towards the city square. Hippolyta has not moved from staring at Martha’s flustered face, but her hand moves gently over her arm, sensing her discomfort.

“She has been acting like a child ever since she learned of you… she is delighted that you exist,” Hippolyta says, peering down at her, as if she’s unable to read her expression. “I hope that she did not upset you.”

Martha shakes her head and looks down at her sandaled feet, opening her mouth to mumble some reassurances that the teasing Amazon had not offended her, but all she hears is herself saying in a small voice,

“Are _you_ delighted that I exist?”

And Hippolyta gives a soft laugh and smiles that shy smile that makes Martha forget that she is the most powerful being in the universe.

“Of course.”

She looks as if she wants to say more, but she only seizes Martha’s hand and leads her through the crowd to the palace square.

* * *

The courtyard is wide and open and enormous, like the town squares of one of those ancient European cities—Venice, or Siena, or Salamanca. Martha clings to Hippolyta’s hand like a child and stares around in awe at the spread of limestone buildings overgrown with vines, the waterfalls simmering in the background, the towering cliffs looming overhead. The sound of rushing water is nearly drowned out by the bustle of preparation for the morning meal. Tables are laid out from end to end in the square, and massive piles of food—colorful arrangements of fruit, long loaves of bread, stacks of pastries, vats of yogurt and butter and cream—are being carried out from the shops lining the square.

Martha stays close to the Queen as the Amazons raise their hands and call greetings to their monarch, and as she greets them in return. So many people coming and going… not even on parade days in Smallville has she seen so much activity in one place. Women are gathered in open doorways, chatting with each other and the cooks and bakers still putting the finished touches on their offerings; others stream into the square with goats, dogs, horses, or birds at their heels. Women in turbans with short knives on their belts are laughing and joking together with girls who have spiked and dyed their hair bright shades of pink and green and red. There are women from every culture and race imaginable, and Martha almost wants to close her eyes to listen to their voices: light and cheerful, deep and throaty, soft and prim, rough and careless, sing-song and punctuated.

“Ah, he is here.”

Martha startles at the sound of Hippolyta’s thoughtful murmur, a sentence, a string of words only for her. She looks to where the Queen is pointing, and she sees a strange sight: a man, a lone male figure seated in the darkest corner of the courtyard. There is a girl with him, and she’s concentrating on the jar of light sitting on the table in front of them. Martha blinks her old eyes and looks again. No, it’s clearly him. She would recognize that careless arrogance anywhere.

_The magician..._

He’s slouching in his chair, one arm over the back, the other arm gesturing towards the jar, clearly in the middle of explaining something. Martha glances up at the Queen, confused.

“Go on. It’s all right,” she says quietly, and Hippolyta releases her hand, resting her own lightly on her shoulder blade before nodding slightly, and watching as Martha hurries forward.

“Constantine!”

 _Demon-hunter_ is a better name for him… _Hellblazer,_ he’d been named, the first time she’d seen him, strolling across the moonlit lake like God Himself walking on water.

But the man startling now from his lazy slouch looks less like an exorcist, and more like a tired father on a long-awaited Saturday morning. He squints at her, then his mouth twists up into a mocking smile.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he drawls, but he swings his lanky legs down from the table and strolls forward to let her embrace him. “‘bout time you showed up. Some of them were taking bets on whether you’d turned her down.”

 _“You_ took those bets,” the girl behind them scolds, and John turns to glare at her.

 _“Focus,_ Astra, that spell won’t cast itself,” he warns, but his voice is surprisingly free of its typical bitter sass.

“Is this your daughter?” Martha asks, looking around his shoulder at the disgruntled girl. She flashes a smile at her, then goes back to staring bug-eyed at the little jar of light.

“This is my _apprentice,”_ John Constantine says drily. “Astra, say hello to Mrs. Kent.”

“I thought I was supposed to be _focusing_ on the spell that won’t cast itself—”

“It’s all right, dear,” Martha says quickly, waving a hand in her direction, but even she can see that the girl is rankling her tutor on purpose. John rolls his eyes, then nods at the Amazons flocking toward the long, breakfast-laden tables.

“So you’re off flying with the man-haters now, are you?”

“Well.” Martha follows his gaze to where Hippolyta is greeting a steadily growing line of gilded Amazons. Antiope stands beside her, smirking, a proud, mocking contrast to her sister’s cold solemness. “You have to admit…”

Constantine raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish.

“Admit what? That they’re all _way_ out of our league?”

Martha finally turns back and looks at him, an exasperated Kansas-mother look on her face.

“You have to admit, they _let you in,”_ she finishes, clapping his shoulder as if he were her son, then grinning and stepping away to leave. Astra nods towards her.

“It’s too bad you missed the friendlier man by a month,” she says, waving vaguely towards the entrance of the courtyard. “He would have liked to say hello.”

 _“Friendlier?”_ John Constantine scoffs. Astra blinks at him, and he huffs.

“Fine, friendlier. _Older,_ though,” he cackles, throwing himself back into the seat, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

“Who—” Martha begins, completely bewildered, but she’s interrupted by a shout.

“Martha Kent!”

“Daddy’s calling,” Constantine says, nodding at Antiope’s waiting figure across the courtyard and waving cheekily at the scowling general. Martha flushes and hurries away.

“That one is a thorn in our side,” Antiope scolds, reaching out and seizing her elbow as she approaches.

“He saved my life,” Martha replies, subtly pulling away, but Antiope looks unimpressed as she leads her to the brighter part of the courtyard.

“We know. That’s why she allows him to _stay.”_

They reach Hippolyta’s side, and Antiope steps away. Martha glances uncertainly up at her tall host, and she rests a reassuring hand against the small of Martha’s back, but says nothing.

A hush has fallen over the courtyard, and all eyes turn to where they are, at the high table in the center of the room. Hippolyta nods, then raises her arms, outstretched toward the sky. She speaks a low, clear prayer in a language Martha does not understand. There is a moment of silence, then the Amazons murmur in response.

“Amazons!” Hippolyta says, making Martha jump. “This is Martha Kent.”

She says nothing more, but the Amazons gaze back at her, their faces calm, unsmiling, but not unwelcoming. Hippolyta scans the crowd, her eyebrows knit together, then she raises her head and says sternly,

“At ease.”

And then they begin to sit, greeting one another, passing trays of food from table to table, filling each others’ plates and wine glasses.

“My lady?”

The attendant from the bedroom is back, and she lays a large platter piled with food before her.

“Oh, goodness—”

But the woman has already disappeared, leaving Martha with enough food for five of her. She turns around in circles, but the girl is nowhere to be seen.

“Sit, my darling, and eat.”

Hippolyta is there, smiling an amused smile at her flustered face.

“There is no way I can eat all this—are you trying to fatten me up?”

Hippolyta grins, and leans forward and brushes her forehead with a kiss, but her gaze becomes serious as they sit down together at the table.

“This food is for you, Martha Kent. The exorcist brought it himself from Man’s World, and our cooks prepared it separately. You must not eat the food from the Underworld, do you understand?”

Martha pauses in the middle of inspecting a frosty glass bowl brimming with thick yogurt.

“How… how many rules did you break to bring me here, Your Majesty?” she asks, forcing herself to look the proud figure in the eye. The Queen gives her that amused, exasperated look that Martha remembers all too well, and then she replies smoothly,

“I am anticipating that we may break a few more.”

And Martha Kent turns bright red and busies herself with her food.

* * *

Throughout the meal, various Amazons approach the high table and share some news (“The planting went well yesterday, My Queen” “The unrest in Northern Tartarus has been resolved, General” “The new exhibition at Athena’s Temple has been completed, and the artists will petition within the week with a date for its debut”) or to bow in respect to their Queen’s guest and introduce themselves. The bread-bakers, the basket-weavers, the hunters, the farmers, the blacksmiths… Hippolyta greets them all and asks them about themselves, their work, their families.

The attendant refills Martha’s plate until she politely asks that it be taken away, and she is left nursing a cup of the best coffee she’s ever tasted.

 _“God,_ Hippolyta, what did you give Constantine to get him to bring you coffee like this?” she asks, pouring herself a third cup. Hippolyta glances behind them, down to one of the wider training fields, where the magician is tutoring his protege in the art of throwing fireballs.

“Peace.”

Martha follows her gaze, sipping her coffee and biting back a contented moan as its fragrant steam curls up into her nose. “I’m glad. He’s a mess if I ever saw one.”

The courtyard is nearly empty. Occasionally, an Amazon will march or meander their way over to one of the tables and pluck something from the remaining offerings of food, or some feathered or furred animals will scurry across the yard, picking at the bowls that were left out for them. But the morning meal is clearly over. Even Antiope has left to resume training; the shouts and clash of dueling Amazons drift over the walls of the palace, and the bustle of the day is rising with the light of the sun.

“I thought today you might enjoy seeing New Themyscira.”

Martha startles from her peaceful meditation. Hippolyta sets her cup of tea down onto the wood table and turns to look at her, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Martha’s ear.

“...would you?”

_Anything, my Queen._

Martha reaches out and brushes her fingertips over the soft fur pelt laying across the Queen’s shoulders, and for a second, she’s back in the Batcave, a human amongst heroes, an outsider in the midst of a league, and the only one who stopped to notice her awkward figure in the corner was this goddess amongst gods, a woman who encapsulated the title of Woman in every way… her long fingers in her hair, gentle as a lover—

“You like doing that, don’t you.”

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. Hippolyta tilts her head slightly, a puzzled expression crossing her face, waiting for Martha to explain herself, but she blushes and looks away.

“That is… yes, I would love to, I would love to see anything you want to show me.”

Hippolyta smirks at the awkward, suggestive wording and as she rises, she says almost mockingly,

“You seem to enjoy doing _that.”_

Martha makes a face, rising as well and almost runs the chair over the hem of her tunic.

“What, making a fool of myself?” she murmurs, embarrassed, avoiding Hippolyta’s gaze as she wrestles the heavy chair back into its rightful place. Hippolyta lifts it with one hand and sweeps her away from its path with the other. Martha closes her gaping mouth and shakes her head. Never, in a hundred years, in a _thousand_ years will she ever get used to how tall and _strong_ this giantess amongst giants is...

“No…” Hippolyta replies, taking her hand in her own and leading her across the courtyard. “You seem to enjoy _propositioning_ me.”

“I—I do _not,”_ Martha retorts. Hippolyta glances down at her, an eyebrow raised, but the only reply she gives is a satisfied smile. They arrive back at the guest room and Hippolyta turns abruptly and kneels down before her, her hands clasping Martha’s waist like a child’s.

“I will be waiting here. Do you need to rest?”

Martha glances up and down the hall, but it’s empty. Hippolyta tilts her head again, and Martha realizes that she’s keeping the Queen waiting.

“I’m not _that_ old, Your Majesty,” she teases, leaning down to kiss her tanned cheek. “Just let me brush my teeth and I’ll be rea…”

And then she stops, realizing that she hadn’t even packed a bag for this trip, and didn’t have a single belonging in this world except for the now-discarded clothes that she’d worn on her back.

_Are there even toothbrushes on Themyscira…_

“I believe the human has brought some,” Hippolyta says, reaching out and brushing her fingertips against Martha’s. “He brought everything another human might need. But tell Myrrha if there is something else you desire during your stay, and she will see to it that you have it.”

_Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree._

Martha shakes herself, shaking away the lingering nonsense lyrics, and finds herself staring down at Hippolyta’s wide smile.

“What?”

 _“You,”_ the Queen smiles, her expression a heart-racing combination of amusement and adoration. “What are you thinking of, little one?”

“Christmas songs. Presents.”

“...presents?”

“I—the human mind is a strange and unfathomable mystery, Your Majesty—”

“You needn't call me that when we are alone.”

A shiver runs down Martha’s spine, as if to meet where Hippolyta’s fingertips just barely meet at the small of her back.

“Oh? What should I call you then… when we are _alone?”_

“You are doing it again.” Hippolyta’s voice is low, amused, and Martha gives a defeated laugh.

 _“Fine._ Let me go, Hippolyta. And when I return from brushing my teeth, you shall show me your world and all its wonders.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and thanks for your kudos/comments so far!! The next update will be on Friday. :)


	3. Between the Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst/character development.

_The woman woke during the night, calling out for her son in distress… when I attended to her, she begged me again not to tell you._

_...again?_

_My Queen…_

_Speak freely, Myrrha. Are you not an Amazon?_

_She has been alone for many years, Hippolyta. Abandoned by the world. Waiting to die, like those gone before her... And she is human. She still feels the ebb and flow of time, its healing, its restlessness._

_She need only say the word, and I will bring her back to her home-_

_No, My Queen. She… her vision is clouded by the darkness of Man’s World. She will need you to guide her through. Do not give up on her so easily, Hippolyta. She will heal, in time. As we all did... as we still are._

* * *

Martha Kent can’t sleep.

The bed is soft, the covers are heavy, the room is dark, its temperature perfect, the night soundless but for the comforting crackle of the fire, and yet…

She is here. Lying here, alone.

Martha pushes the covers aside and stares across the pillows at the shadows flickering over the ceiling, then she groans, sits up, and swings her legs over the side of the bed. The floor is cold, and for a second, she lingers, wondering if she should just lie back down, pull the covers over her head, and close her eyes once more.

_Mankind has done this to you._

The fire snaps, and Martha rises to her feet. They lead her across the room to the window, where, on that first morning, she had looked out and seen her. _Her._

Martha pulls aside the heavy curtains and looks over the city, its streets and buildings a blanket of glimmering lights, peaceful and beautiful and serene.

_No, I’m perfectly happy to be… to be invisible. To be a spectator…_

But not in her own life.

_What are you talking about, Martha Clark Kent, you’ve never had a moment’s control in your own life, and you know it._

_I only thought… it would be different. I thought... she would love me._

But it is a ridiculous thought. She is here, she is _here,_ in the Underworld, in the realm of the dead, and the Queen is footsteps away instead of worlds away. That she is here against all odds should be evidence enough, and yet…

_It’s just your head, telling you things. It’s all in your head._

_But what if..._

The last two weeks in the Underworld have been perfect. Beautiful. Wonderful.

She and the Queen spent their first morning together touring the shops and businesses of New Themyscira, from the open-air displays of pottery and woodwork and statues, to the deep caves where the physicians and inventors work, to the mountaintop and forest hideaways where the painters and musicians gain respite and inspiration. Then Hippolyta brought her to the stables, and they rode together to the Temple of the Gods, at the highest point of the Underworld.

 _Even the Goddess of Death sometimes longs for the land of the living,_ she has said softly, pointing upwards where, like the moon hovering directly overhead, a tiny circle of sky could be seen. And Martha had stared at that piercing ray of reality for a long moment before lowering her head once more to rest her cheek against the soft fur over her lover’s shoulder.

It was a strange, solemn moment, the first time since their lakeside meeting on Earth that she saw that touch of cold vulnerability and melancholy in the powerful goddess. But the Queen had only brushed the top of her head with a kiss, then took her hand and pointed out the landmarks over the shadowed lands: the Elysian Fields, the Lethe, the Styx, the Asphodel Fields, the towering mountains that veiled Tartarus from her eye.

The days that followed were full of peace and quiet. Hippolyta invited her to sit beside her in court and her meeting rooms, where commoners came forward with reports, petitions, and requests, and at other times, she sat behind the Queen’s seat in the Senate, where laws were written, reviewed, and debated. Sometimes she went out on her own, on foot or on horseback, never straying too far from the comforting pillars of the city.

Yesterday, Hippolyta had led her through the halls of the palace, showing her the guest quarters, the dining hall, the kitchens, the receiving areas. It was then that she discovered that her room was not simply a guest room—it was the _Queen’s_ guest room. A few twists and turns down some long hallways, and she would arrive in the Queen’s private chambers, which consisted of open balconies looking out over the entire Underworld, a rooftop garden with a fountain in the center that fed an enormous pool of warm, glowing water, a study with tall shelves lined with scrolls, and her sleeping quarters...

Martha Kent had taken one look towards the lavish, curtain-veiled bed and buried her face like a child into her lover’s hair—which, besides the pelt over her shoulders, was the only soft thing about her. And Hippolyta had chuckled and teased,

_Listen to your heart racing. What do you want, little one?_

And the Queen had picked her up, carried her across the room, pushed aside the filmy curtains, and gently laid her captive upon the bed of furs. And then she had leaned down and kissed her, like she had kissed her on that black chariot, deep and passionate, and Martha had unclasped and pushed aside the warrior queen’s cloak, letting the heavy material tumble to the floor, and then her fingers were grasping at that wild mane of golden hair, grasping at her neck, at her shoulders, grasping for _skin—_

_God, Hippolyta, if I’d wanted to sleep with an crocodile..._

The Queen had laughed a soft laugh at her desperate whines, stilled her kicking legs with a gentle touch on her knee. And then she’d lifted herself onto the bed, looming over her, strong arms planted on either side of Martha’s head, and she’d kissed her, and kissed her again, and Martha had traced the cold metal of her golden crown with trembling fingers, wrapped her arms around her neck, feeling her body move in tandem with the one lying carefully atop hers, a thrilling, addictive rhythm... but then Hippolyta had pulled away and laid quietly down beside her, gazing at her, playing with a loose strand of her gray hair.

 _Please… please…_ Martha had whispered, seeing the blazing desire in her lover’s eyes, but the goddess had shaken her head, and Martha had shrunken away.

_In time, my love._

“My lady? Is there something I can bring for you?”

Martha jumps and spins around to see Myrrha standing in the archway.

_You can bring me the Queen._

But one does not summon the Queen.

“No, sweetheart, I’m fine. Thank you.”

Martha pulls the curtains over the window once more, and makes her way to the bathroom. She brushes her fingers over the water-lamp beside the stone, as Hippolyta taught her at the glassblowers, and the room glows with the water’s soft light.

She is tempted for a moment to make her way to the long mirror in the corner, to look at her sleep-deprived reflection, but she only reaches for the bag of toiletries John Constantine had brought from the land of the living, and there, in a large ziplock, are a dozen boxes of pills. The cardboard and printed text are so strange and modern in this land of ancient beauty… she downs two while studying the logo. It’s some off-brand sleeping pill that he must have picked up at some corner shop, and for a moment, she thinks of London, a city where she’s never been, but that is so familiar from seeing a lifetime of depictions in books and movies and TV shows…

It’s a strange world, this.

Martha sets the half-empty glass down onto the stone ledge beside the sink, then sits heavily beside the gurgling pool that is set against the left wall. And for a long time, she leans against the stone in silence, letting her hand trail in the warm water.

_Hippolyta, please…_

Fifteen years spent sleeping in a bed that’s too big, fifteen years spent setting out the pillows for the right side, even though she knows that no one will ever rest their head down onto them, fall asleep beside her. Fifteen years, alone, missing her parents, missing her husband, missing her son...

And _now_ she’s lonely?

No, not lonely. Needy. Impatient. Homesick. But only now, here, in the dead of night, when the world is nothing but a soft, breathless murmur. In the daylight, all of this darkness will dissipate and fade from memory, like the senseless, meaningless shadows they are.

_It's just a bad day. It's just how it is when you get old, you have good days and bad days._

Martha grumbles to herself as she rises and undoes her sash, letting the nightgown whisper down from her skin and puddle onto the floor. Then she steps up and lowers herself into the warm, comforting water.

_It’s not you, Hippolyta, it’s me._

The blue glow of the water pulses and beads against her skin, and Martha rests her head against the cushions lining the edge of the pool. Her nerves are buzzing, the sleeping pills already beginning to muddle her thoughts, and the weight of the water pushes her limbs toward the surface. In another second, she’s floating, weightless, like a dead woman.

_Tell me what you want._

_I want you. I want you, Hippolyta, I want you, I want you..._

Martha’s arms skim over the water, her fingertips trailing droplets over her heat-flushed skin, and she sighs. Yes, they had kissed under the night sky, and she had brought her here to the Underworld, but they made no promises together, no vows, no declarations. And Hippolyta is beautiful, and powerful, and desired, without a doubt, by others... perhaps even now the Queen is in her chambers, bedding another woman, making her sigh in pleasure, while Martha waits her turn in the guest rooms, waiting to be summoned, like Esther and Xerxes… perhaps there are hundreds of guest rooms just like this scattered throughout the Underworld, perhaps she is one of hundreds, thousands sought and seduced and waiting to be consumed by the ruthless Amazon goddess; perhaps even now the Queen is awake, her head thrown back in ecstasy, one hand tearing her terribly expensive sheets to shreds, and the other hand working furiously between her own legs…

Martha gasps and bolts upright, the water sloshing against smoothed stone. One hand is gripping the soft pillows at the pool’s edge, the other hand…

_Oh God, oh God, oh gods…_

She pulls her hand from the water and stares at her dripping fingers, then frantically seizes at the pile of towels stacked neatly beside her, almost toppling the entire set into the pool. Her body is still tingling happily as she scrubs wildly at her skin, scrubbing away her guilt and desire. The sound of the splashing water is dim and distant in her ears—the sleeping pills beginning to run their course at last, the ring of oxytocin flooding her brain, and the towels fall to the floor with a soft _thump._

_Damn it, damn it, damn it—_

“Martha?”

She jumps, and spins around, terror slicing through her like a blade—

_What are you doing here—get out, get OUT..._

But the object of her desires—the one who mere seconds ago in her imagination had been shaking in the throes of ecstasy—steps forward, silently gathers one of the still-folded towels from the floor, and wraps her shivering figure in its soft, fluffy warmth. Martha turns her face away as the Queen dries her hair and skin, and she ignores the concerned frown that is barely visible in the soft ripples of light from the pool. She’s sure that this goddess of gods can still smell the lingering scent of her arousal, the evidence of her sins against God and man… the things no one ever spoke of, no one ever knew about…

_“Oh, child… what is this burden you carry?”_

She hears the murmured voice of her lover, and tries to raise her head, but the pills and post-orgasmatic bliss have already done their work: she doesn’t even feel as she slips down to rest her tired body against cold stone, or as strong arms lift her up and carry her back to bed.

* * *

In the morning, Myrrha lays her breakfast out on the patio outside of her bedroom. Martha steps out into the day, pulling her robe tighter around her shoulders, and blearily wipes her eyes as she takes a seat. She had forgotten how groggy sleeping pills make her feel in the morning, and the lingering side effects mixed with her sleeplessness and anxiety from last night…

_This is a perfect life, a perfect morning, why—how can I even begin to feel sad—_

A gentle touch on her shoulder makes her jump and nearly drop the scrambled eggs from her fork.

“Hippolyta! You scared me-”

But cold lips cut off the remainder of Martha’s half-laughed greeting, and the Queen’s kiss is surprisingly passionate for the early hour. When she pulls away, her eyebrows are knit together in an expression of concern, and Martha sighs and pats her hand

“Don’t you worry about me. It’s just… it’s part of being old.”

The Queen’s cold hands cup her cheeks, and she says very softly,

“Tell me what you want.”

And Martha looks away.

_Too much._

For a moment, they sit together in silence, the glowing rays of the sun beginning to spread across the Underworld.

“I…”

_You. Just… you._

_I thought, when you appeared on my doorstep, that you would take me directly to your bed. I thought that the Amazons were everything Earth is not: wild, reckless, free. I thought that you wanted me as much as I wanted you… to have and to hold, Hippolyta, not... to be or not to be._

Martha shakes her head, shaking away the Queen’s hands, and she waves a hand towards the chair. The woman’s eyes flicker with confusion, but when she sits, Martha turns and settles down onto her lap, and takes one of her hands in both of hers. The Queen’s other arm slips around her waist, keeping her seated securely in her unorthodox seat. Martha shivers as Hippolyta’s hand settles over her hip bone, her fingers holding tightly to her side. And then she leans back, and the Queen rests her cheek against the side of her head, and Martha closes her eyes...

“You immortals take things very slow.” Her words are still drowsy from the sleeping pills; her fingers play with the hand in her lap, the skin rough and muscles strong from a lifetime of holding a blade.

“Yes… but that does not mean that you and I must.” Hippolyta’s voice is hesitant, as if she’s unsure where Martha is going with this.

“No, I want… I want to do this right,” Martha says, bringing the goddess’ hand up to her lips, pressing kisses over the callouses and scars. “I don’t want to rush. I—it’s just new. This is all new, and it’s going to take some getting used to.”

_Hippolyta… when?_

_When you are ready, little one._

_I’m ready now._

_No. There is still too much you do not know, too much you do not understand._

_I understand that I want you. Why don’t you?_

Martha pauses and laces her fingers through the Queen’s, and takes a deep breath.

“Look... my darling, my Queen. This is… I’ve… I have never been with a woman before. I’ve never been in a world where women were anything other than wives, mothers, homemakers, waitresses. And never, in a hundred years, would I have ever thought this would happen, I thought I would—I don’t know—take it to the grave, never tell anyone. What else could I do? Even after Jonathan died, everyone… even in the big cities, in Hollywood, where it’s more accepted, it’s all young people, young women... no one wants an old woman from Kansas.

“But then you looked at me, and you knew, you _knew_ this thing I’ve been hiding for my entire life, and…”

Martha’s voice trails off and Hippolyta presses a long kiss onto the top of her head.

“...it’s hard to talk about, is all. Even now—I probably wouldn’t even be speaking if I didn’t half-think that this whole thing is a dream, and I’ll wake up in a minute.”

She gives a short laugh and presses her cheek against soft fur, breathing deeply, taking in the fresh scent of her lover’s skin—frost-touched flowers, dew on the grass, carved stone—and reaches up to trail her fingers down that strong, bronzed arm.

“I mean, _look_ at you.” Her voice cracks, and she reaches for one of the napkins on the table to blow her nose like some undignified person. Hippolyta waits until she stuffs the unfortunate napkin into the pocket of her nightgown, then she slowly turns her around in her lap, and Martha stares up at that serious face, at clear blue eyes that see everything.

“It will not happen quickly, little one. You must be patient, and allow these wounds to heal,” Hippolyta says, her voice low and musical as those eyes rove her face. “But I will be here. You know I will.”

Martha looks down at the silky handkerchief that the Queen is offering to her, and she shakes her head, even though she doesn’t quite know what she’s shaking her head at. And then she’s laughing and crying at the same time, and Hippolyta wraps her arms around her and rocks her back and forth like a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The next chapter will be posted tomorrow night!


	4. They Will Tell Our Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha Kent explores the Underworld while the Queen is away, and when she returns, she asks her a question.
> 
> ~~Also Martha complaining about Hippolyta's armor.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is late, but it's also 1000 words longer than originally intended, so...

There is a rebellion in Tartarus.

The sullen and wrathful have risen up against one another, and the Queen has left New Themyscira to settle their petty battles.

She leaves Antiope to rule in her absence.

Paradise without Hippolyta by her side is not as frightening as Martha Kent once might have thought. The Amazons are friendly, greeting her at meals, in the streets, in the shops. But still, it is not quite the same without the tall figure of the Queen towering beside her, interceding for her, explaining the world for her. And so Martha orders Myrrha to pack her a lunch, and the Amazon insists on carrying it herself to the stables.

On their first day, Hippolyta had brought Martha to the pastures, and the horses that brought them from her doorstep in Kansas to the Underworld had rushed forward to meet them.

 _Aethon and Nyctaeus,_ Hippolyta had named them, and they had nudged at Martha with their soft noses and greeted her with happy nickers. _They will answer to you, now, Martha Kent. They will bear you anywhere in the Underworld._

Now, they stamp the air, eager and impatient as the stablehands harness them to the black chariot.

“They are ready, my lady.”

Martha steps in and settles uncomfortably onto the velvet cushions, and hesitantly picks up the reins. Perhaps she should have thought this through...

“Tell them where to go. They will give you no trouble,” the Amazon stable master says kindly, and Martha swallows hard, then whispers,

“I wish to see the world.”

And the ghostly horses take to the air.

* * *

The Underworld is larger than she would have thought possible. Elysium goes on for thousands upon thousands of miles, seemingly divided by country, culture, and time. Martha guides the horses down from the air, and they settle into a steady trot along the well-worn road through heaven. There are villages, tribes, tents, huts, cabins, cities, and the _people…_ they walk about in loincloths and skins and tunics and silks and robes and armor, as if they had stepped out from a history book or a painting.

They greet her as, _The Lady,_ in every iteration of every language imaginable.

She hears them first, and then they’re all coming out in a rush through the trees to welcome her, plying her with gifts and offerings, but she refuses everything but the embraces of the women and children. The men set aside their work and bow low as they approach, praising the name and deeds of Hippolyta in gruff voices, offering the services of their labor and allegiance to their Queen.

_She freed us from the demons… it is a debt that can never be repaid._

The women nod knowingly, hands reaching out to brush against the heavy cloak over Martha’s shoulders.

_She is our Queen, our deliverer. And she has chosen well._

Their good-natured teasing makes Martha’s cheeks burn, but their eyes are kind, and she’s grinning as she turns to the children. They giggle and dance and dare each other to touch the restless horses, the gleaming chariot, and her warm, living skin.

She gives a final round of hugs and rides on, waving away the last offerings of meat and bread and skins and wine and spices and gold, and the path winds its way past fields of wildflowers, through cool forests, and over mountains littered with loose shale.

 _“Go on, it’s all right,”_ Martha urges, and the horses toss their heads and take to the air once more, leaving the stony path below. The cool mist kisses her face as they float over the snow-dusted crags and then descend once more into the golden fields of oats, wheat, barley, rye. The sunlight feels good on her skin, and this is familiar: the rustle of the breeze over the ripe crops, the calls of the birds to one another, the buzz of cicadas...

It’s quiet here. She can hear herself think... at any moment now, Clark’s bus should be rumbling down the dirt road, her little eager beaver running up the driveway, his heavy backpack bouncing against his back as if it weighs nothing...

One of the horses neighs a question, and the chariot slows. Martha opens her eyes. There, peeking out from between the trees is a glimmer of light on the horizon. Martha squints, and urges the horses forward. Another city, perhaps? Some ancient empire?

But when they have made their way past the thick grove of trees, they emerge over the sandy beach of a lake. The water is so wide, it almost seems an ocean, but Martha can catch a glimpse of a dark outline of land smudged across the horizon: The Isle of the Blest. The deeps of the lake are a rich blue mixed with patches of mossy aquamarine, but here, beneath the wheels of her black chariot, the water is clear, and the ripples from the restless surface cast shadows along the sandy floor. Martha peers over the edge of the chariot, watching the dancing light… and something inside of her sighs happily.

She sets the chariot down on dry land, then steps out. The sand is tightly packed. The tide is out. For a moment she stands in silence and stares out over the sparkling water, then one of the horses nudges her and she smiles.

“You did so well,” she whispers, petting them both, and laughing as they blow in her face and shake their manes. “Let’s get you out of this.”

The chariot is—thankfully—a simple matter of loosening a series of straps, and Martha Kent is no stranger to horses. But these horses do not need cooling or water or snacks. They whinny happily when she sets them free, and then they take turns cantering along the edge of the lake, their hooves kicking up sparkles of water. Martha grins, then reaches into the chariot for the blanket and lunch she’d packed.

The rest of the day is devoted to relaxing on thick, woven fleece that seems suspiciously adept at keeping off the sand… perhaps when she returns to New Themyscira, she will go to the weavers and ask what trick this is… The horses come around to stare at her prone figure, nudging her a few times to make sure she’s still sentient. When they are sufficiently petted and convinced that she is not unwell, they wander off to play together, racing each other, swimming a few laps in the glassy water, standing solemnly, and then doing it all over again. Martha curls up and watches them sideways from further inland, where the sand is softer, and there’s a smaller chance of getting swept away. She wraps herself in her cloak and drifts off to the sounds of water lapping along the shore, the horses snorting at one another, and an occasional bird cawing as it searches the water and sand for food.

When a nickering horse nose wakes her, it is late afternoon, and the Underworld-sun is beginning its downward journey to the edge of the world. They say it settles in Tartarus, where the wicked are punished by its hot, blinding rays, but Martha doesn’t believe such things any more than she believes Apollo drives Earth’s sun across the sky in the morning.

“Should we follow the sun, Aethon?” Martha asks sleepily, brushing her hand over the horse mane that is tickling her face. “Should we go find Hippolyta and bring her back?”

Nyctaeus lets out a grunt and paws at the air from the background, and Martha sighs. New Themyscira seems so empty without its Queen.

* * *

But that night, Hippolyta returns. Martha sits up in bed, her ears pricked up at the sound of voices in the distant courtyard below. It is the Queen’s Guard, home at last. Martha listens as their clamor fades away, and then she lies back down, her heart hammering.

There are no more disturbances in the night, but at some point, Martha feels a gentle touch on her cheek: the cold lips of her lover, a stolen kiss of greeting.

“Go back to sleep, little one.”

Martha breathes out a slow sigh of relief, and when she opens her eyes again, the room is empty, and she wonders if she just imagined the entire thing.

* * *

It is still before dawn. The crackling of the fire sounds suspiciously loud in the quiet room, and Martha stretches, then sits up, shoulders hunched, hair messily falling down over her face. And then, as if in a trance, she rises to her feet.

The guards outside her door say nothing as she walks past, pulling her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against the chill. There are no torches, only clear jugs of glowing water set at intervals throughout the hall. Martha listens as her feet pad against the cold floor, and she wonders vaguely why she didn’t put on her slippers before embarking on this venture.

The fire in Hippolyta’s bedchambers is burning merrily, masking the sound of her footsteps, and Martha peers around the corner at the sleeping figure on the bed. For a long moment, she stands, watching as the shadows flicker against the thin screen of curtains, and the gentle slope of the Queen’s body…

And then her feet are leading her forward, and her hand is reaching out to brush aside the veil, and Martha Kent stops to catch her breath.

She’s always known the woman was beautiful. Even in the panic of the standoff in the Batcave, the echoes of the splintered door still lingering in the air, she’d looked upon the armored figure and thought that there was no one this cold, stunning goddess could be except the mother of the princess, the Queen of the Amazons. And then when she’d gone to her, a cup of steaming tea in her hands, she’d barely been able to force herself to look the woman in the face. She had been even more beautiful in the moonlight.

And now… with her eyes closed, her face relaxed and free of the stress and weight of the day, her hair falling free in waves over the pillows, her mouth slightly open, her arms lounging carelessly up over her head…

She looks soft. Vulnerable. Intimate.

_I could get used to this, Your Majesty._

But Martha only reaches out a trembling hand and sweeps a strand of hair away from her cheek, and then presses a light kiss against her skin in its wake.

_“Welcome back, my Queen.”_

Hippolyta does not reply, but she shifts in her sleep at the sound of her voice, and Martha recoils in panic, and then she turns on her heel and flees.

* * *

But in the morning, Hippolyta is there in the flesh, and she greets Martha with a kiss and breakfast in bed.

And Martha wants nothing more than to hold her close, to let the Queen’s cold embrace drive away the loneliness of the last few weeks. Hippolyta’s gaze is cautious, almost shy as she arranges the food onto the tray above Martha’s lap, as she pours the boiling water for the tea, uncovers the glass bowls of fruit and yogurt and a platter of flat, Amazonian pancakes, and unwraps the pastries, still warm from the bakers.

“I thought we were not allowed to serve one another,” Martha says, reaching out and taking Hippolyta’s hand, stopping her from mixing her yogurt for her. And Hippolyta smiles and bends down to brush a kiss over the fingers holding tightly onto hers.

“No. _You_ are not allowed to serve _me.”_

And Martha shakes her head, but she sighs happily and looks down at the colorful display of food. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Shhh. I will spend the entire day listening to Amazons and attending to the business that my sister left for me. Let me enjoy a quiet meal with a beautiful woman.”

“You know, a beautiful woman came into my room last night.”

Hippolyta raises an eyebrow and steals one of Martha’s grapes.

“Did she now?”

“Hmm, yes,” Martha replies, as she cuts into the stack of sweet, syrup-drenched pancakes. “You should be careful. One night, I may ask her to stay.”

“Maybe one night, she will,” Hippolyta says with a secretive smile, trailing her knuckles up and down Martha’s bare arm. And Martha shivers and reaches out to trace her fingers along Hippolyta’s long neck, lingering over the crocodile skin that is stretched across her clavicles. Her hand is shaking, giddy like a teenager at her lover’s return and presence, here, in her bed, at long last. And Hippolyta has apparently made herself at home, lounging like a lioness, propping herself up on one arm, and popping stolen fruit into her mouth as she watches her with a soft, amused smile. Martha ducks her head shyly as she lets her fingers travel down to trace over the eagle of bare skin above her breasts.

_God, it’s true what they say about Greek goddesses..._

“You know what, I changed my mind. I think this outfit is my favorite.”

Hippolyta tilts her head, apparently unfazed by Martha’s wandering hands. “Do you?”

“Yes. All of your others cover up this pretty neck.”

“Hmm. It is _almost_ as if that armor was designed to protect my life in battle, rather than to cater to the lustful eyes of little humans,” Hippolyta says airily, her pointed tone completely belied by the way she reaches out and brushes the hair away from Martha’s face.

“Oh, I doubt that,” she retorts, reluctantly pulling her hand away from cold skin, and picking up a pastry that looks suspiciously like a danish. Hippolyta raises a questioning eyebrow at her, but Martha has already bitten off a corner and she waves a hand in Hippolyta’s general direction, her mouth full of flakey, sugary dough. “No—I mean, have you _seen_ how prominent your breasts look in your normal armor? It’s like looking into the _sun—_ and I’ll bet the tailors had a good time fitting you for that getup.”

“Well, it would seem that _you_ noticed,” Hippolyta replies mildly, but there is a sparkle of wickedness in her eyes, and she laughs as Martha attempts to throw sugary crumbs at her.

“You have become feisty in my absence, human woman,” she chides, blocking her flailing arms and guiding them back to the tray of breakfast. “Although now, I have to wonder if it was _me_ you missed, or my b—”

“Don’t be silly,” Martha interrupts, waving a slightly frantic, silencing hand at her lover’s grinning face. “I am simply commenting on the impracticality of your armor, Your Majesty. It seems to me we could have done without being able to count your breasts from a mile away—although, they are not _unpleasant_ to look at, just… just—”

“You have been spending too much time with General Antiope,” Hippolyta sighs mournfully when Martha’s voice trails off to nothing. But her eyes are bright as she stares all-too knowingly at Martha’s red cheeks. “She has corrupted you with her obsession of all things related to the physical and carnal.”

“Hippolyta!”

“I hammered that armor myself, so calm your rage, jealous one,” Hippolyta says, gently taking her hands and, without breaking eye-contact, licking the smears of sugar and syrup from them. Martha bites back a whine at the tingling sensation of that rough, wet tongue against the pads of her fingers, and quickly turns away.

“I… I don’t have rage,” she mumbles in a small voice, pulling her hands back and randomly seizing a spoon. Hippolyta watches as she blindly stirs too much honey into the small bowl of yogurt.

“None at all? Not even a _hint_ of jealousy?” she teases, her eyes dancing as she traces circles in tandem with her over the blanket-covered lump that is Martha’s knee. The leg jerks, and Hippolyta chuckles.

“I do not—I, _fine,”_ Martha challenges, pushing a spoonful of sickeningly-sweet yogurt into her own mouth, trying to hide her smile as she plays along. “Did you meet any pretty girls while you were down there in Tartarus?”

 _“Indeed,_ they’re all sinners, as you know... and they are nearly as skilled at propositioning me as _you,”_ Hippolyta murmurs, leaning in and brushing her knuckles down Martha’s burning face.

“I highly doubt that,” she replies sourly, turning her head and fake-biting the Queen’s fingers. Hippolyta laughs aloud, pushes aside the tray, and gathers her into her arms.

“Oh, how I missed you, Martha Kent,” she whispers, nipping at her earlobe. “I missed your angry voice, I missed your sharp teeth... I missed your stubborn, pouting mouth...”

“Come _on…”_ Martha dismisses, and she’s trying not to laugh, but the breathless smile fades slowly from her face as she turns her head on the soft pillow and finds herself staring into the Queen’s eyes, eyes that are the same shade as the depths of that beautiful lake, eyes that are as cold and flinty as those snow-dusted mountains of shale, eyes that are for her, only for her.

_Very well. Tell me, then, what it is you want, Martha Kent._

_I want you._

“...Hippolyta?” Her voice sounds so small in a world so big, but her lover’s fingers trail down the side of her face, and her touch is so tender, it feels as if there is no one else, no one in the palace, in the Underworld, in the _universe_ but them.

“Yes, little one?”

“I… I saw you last night.”

“And I you.”

“No, in your rooms… I came in, and I saw you.”

And Hippolyta smiles and tugs lightly at her hair.

“I know. If you must spy on me, can you not spy quietly, my little Eros?”

And Martha’s lips lift into an embarrassed smile.

“I’m sorry.”

They lie in silence for a moment longer, but it is a different silence, a silence of waiting. Hippolyta’s gaze is curious, but she only says,

“If you wish to ask me something, ask, my love.”

And Martha stares back at her, remembering the sight of her in the shadows, the peace in her face, the thin, beautifully embroidered robe around her body—the hard, protective armor gone at last…

“Do you think we could… that is, I... want to wake up next to you. And fall asleep beside you. And dream about you. And wake up in the middle of the night, and know you’re there. And then I want you to hold me until I fall asleep again. I—I know we’re not going to do more, not yet. But I saw you… and I love seeing you like that. I love seeing you at peace.”

Hippolyta does not respond for a long moment, and when she rises, the rustle of the bed sheets sounds devastatingly loud in Martha’s ears.

“I also saw you.” Her voice is quiet. “You smiled when I kissed you.”

Martha stares at her, the most beautiful woman in the world, and then she raises her head and says,

“Kiss me again.”

Hippolyta looks down at her, almost as if in disbelief, and then she smiles, pushes back her wild hair, and bends down to press a kiss to Martha’s mouth, parting her lips with that tongue, heavy and passionate. It is a kiss to silence her worries and assuage her fears and leave her breathless and weightless and incapable of any coherent thought or feeling save pure, hot, reckless desire…

_Hippolyta, please…_

Martha’s hands are raking through her tangled hair, gripping at silky gold like her life depends on it, and more than anything, she wishes those cold lips would trail down her throat, press against her thrashing heart, that those strong hands would tear apart this flimsy night robe, toss aside the ruined scraps, take her, ravish her, here, now, like in the stories…

_“Please… ”_

And to Martha’s surprise, it’s not her own broken voice begging for more, but the Queen’s, soft and plaintive against her lips. And Martha releases her immediately.

_She doesn’t—she does not want…_

But Hippolyta pulls away a mere inch and presses a finger against Martha’s lips.

“I have wanted you from the moment I first saw you, Martha Kent.”

_Then take me._

But Martha lies there, trembling, wanting more than anything to wrap herself around this strange, forbidden creature, and never let her go. Hippolyta only looms over her, her expression softening as she stares down at her.

“Do not rush this, impatient one.” 

And Martha forces herself to take a deep, shuddering breath, turning her head and pressing her cheek deep into the pillows. Hippolyta smiles almost indulgently at her frustrated face and leans down to nuzzle the side of her head.

“Look at me.”

And Martha sighs and turns to look up into the bright eyes of her tormentor, her lover.

“They will tell our story to the generations. The story of an immortal Queen brought down to her knees by a human woman. And when they write it, I will not have it said that Death stole Life away, and brought her to the Underworld only to consume her, to live in captivity as her plaything. I will have the people know that for my daughter, my little sun and stars, I fell upon my own blade and traded my life, but for you, my beloved, my light in darkness… for _you,_ I defied the rules that dared keep us asunder; I knelt before you and you took my hand, and the very foundation of reality will _tremble_ when I bring you up into ecstasy.”

Martha blinks up at her, her eyes wide with wonder, and then she reaches up to cup Hippolyta’s cheeks and kisses her, a simple kiss, a soft kiss, with none of the wild desperation of before. And when their lips part, Martha says in a low voice,

“And what will the universe do, when I touch you with my living hands, and _every soul_ in the Underworld hears you crying out in pleasure?”

And Hippolyta smiles, a hint of color creeping up into her pale cheeks.

“They will weep in jealousy, my love, for none can look upon the soft, distant beauty of the moon and not stand in awe of her.”

And with that, the Queen touches her silvery hair with trembling fingers, then presses the lightest of kisses against her lips.

_“I will see you tonight, little one.”_

And then she is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I actually revamped the entire second half of this chapter (the original was much more playful and silly, and it just wasn't working for me, so here's this instead!).
> 
> Also... I just realized they eat breakfast a lot in this fic. Oh, well. :D


	5. Everything Changes, Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor appears at New Themyscira.

The hyacinths are blooming.

When Hippolyta had first brought her to the Gardens of Persephone, the fields were filled with poppies, acres upon acres of poppies, bright and fragile, waving mournfully in the wind.

 _“What pain was she trying to numb?”_ she had asked, eyes wide. Hippolyta had pressed her lips together and said nothing.

 _I don’t just want fields,_ Martha had said as they wandered up and down the blood and fire-strewn paths. Fields… they reminded her too much of the farm. Life, for the sake of life. Life, for the sake of necessity, to feed people, to survive. But a garden is life for the sake of beauty.

So the poppies were uprooted and scattered across the Lethe, and in their place, pools were dug, streams and mossy stones and windings paths were laid, and trellises and bridges built, fountains and statues arranged, and the flowers… she planted thousands upon thousands of flowers, each one different from the next, until the land was awash in color.

 _A labyrinth of life,_ Hippolyta had called it when Martha allowed her to see it in its completion at last. And Martha had sighed and pulled her dramatic lover onto a stone bench beside a still pool of water. There were water lilies floating across the surface, little minnows dashing from rock to rock, and a frog had been croaking somewhere at the other end of the pond.

_Just call it a garden, darling. Not everything needs to be poetic._

The hyacinths smell divine.

Nyctaeus nudges her back and Martha shoos her away.

“No eating,” she scolds, and the horse retreats with a snort as her mate whinnies in amusement.

Martha frowns at them, then returns to her flowers. They are so fragrant, with their clusters of delicate blossoms, she would only need a handful to fill her rooms with their sweet scent.

She returns to New Themyscira with an armful of blossoms: hyacinths mixed with ranunculus and some sprigs of those beautiful peruvian lilies she’d always loved. Senate is not in session, but a passing Amazon mentions that the Queen has been welcoming petitioners in her study all morning.

_Your Majesty, I’d like to petition for a vase._

Martha laughs to herself and makes her way to her Hippolyta’s official meeting rooms. Her tall figure is standing with her back to the archway, staring down at her desk. A map and tell-tale petition are spread out across the surface, and her voice is in the middle of saying something about _the_ _necessity of transporting grain and seeds beyond the written borders..._

But Martha stops listening.

Because standing there, facing her royal lover, is a man.

And that man is Jonathan Kent.

Martha freezes, dead in her tracks, her mind spinning. The only reason that the flowers stay in her arms instead of scattering across the stone floor is because she draws them close, clinging to them, choking them, smothering them against her pounding heart.

_Jonathan… Jonathan..._

_It’s okay, it’s okay it’s okay it’s—_

_Jonath—_

_Ma, stay here._

His worn farmer’s hat is in his hand, his brow furrowed as he watches the Queen’s finger tracing along the lines of the map.

“It can be done, Your Majesty, but we will need to come up with something better to get the grain over those mountains. Our wagons won’t cut it…”

And then his voice, that rough, familiar, gravelly voice trails off as he looks up and sees his wife standing below the archway, her arms full of freshly-picked flowers still wet with dew, her cheeks flushed from the chilly morning air, her eyes wide with shock.

_Martha…_

He looks just like she remembered… tired and solemn and rugged, with those worried eyes that scanned horizons and cursed the weather, and those big, calloused hands that could toss fifty-pound bags of grain for hours, but were so gentle when they touched her skin... it’s _him,_ the man who had held their family together through thick and thin, for better or for worse... it’s Jonathan Kent, her husband, the epitome of Kansas, the cornerstone of her old life.

And yet he is here. In New Themyscira. With the Queen.

Hippolyta doesn’t turn around for a long moment, as if clinging to the seconds where she doesn’t have to take in the expression of horror and fear and betrayal on Martha’s face. But when she does, her eyes linger on the blossoms filling Martha’s arms, as if she can’t bear to look at her.

Martha takes a breath, wavering, her heart beating alone in a soulless room, and then she turns and walks away without a word.

* * *

She spreads the stems across the bedcover, and her hands are shaking as she sorts them by color, and then by flower, and then by size. She knows the Queen is standing in the doorway behind her, watching her in silence, but she can’t look at her, she just…

_What were you thinking, Hippolyta?_

_No, what was I thinking? Of course he’d be here, he’s dead, and this is the land of the dead. I can’t believe I never…_

_I can’t believe you had him here, behind my back. How many times have you met with him since you brought me to this place? Five, ten, twenty?_

_He’s going to kill you. And then he’s going to kill me. And I’m going to kill him back for daring to die in that tornado, dying for no good reason, leaving me alone, leaving us to drown in our guilt, when Clark could have saved him in the blink of an eye…_

_This should have been happy. This should have been wonderful, the best day, a day I’ve dreamed of since his death, and yet…_

_I can’t._

_I can’t do this._

A cold hand reaches out and rests gently over her frantic ones, and Martha pushes her away. And for once, she steps back, as if Martha’s small, human strength could ever move an immovable goddess. But it’s that subtle motion, that surrender of control that makes Martha stop, the flowers scattered in chaos once more across the wool bedspread, and she closes her eyes.

“Do… do you know who he is?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know what we are?”

“Yes.”

Hippolyta’s voice is soft. Martha breathes out a slow breath of relief. And for a long moment, they stand in silence, Hippolyta looking down at her, and Martha looking down at her flowers.

“Did you send him away?”

“No. I thought, perhaps...” Hippolyta’s words are light, but Martha can hear the slight tremor in her voice as it trails off. And all at once, she knows why.

_It’s been fifteen years, Hippolyta. Fifteen years of anger and loneliness and hardship. Do you think I would go back to him now?_

Martha fingers a silky lily petal: white, with streaks of pink and yellow reaching up from its core. For a moment, life seemed so simple.

“Hippolyta?”

The Queen does not move to touch her.

“What is it?”

And Martha turns and reaches up to tuck the delicate flower behind her lover’s ear. And she opens her mouth to speak, but she can’t. There’s too much… too much she still doesn’t know. But she knows how she feels about the woman standing beside her; if nothing else, she knows that.

“I love you.”

And the Queen’s expression is guarded as she reaches up and carefully, hesitantly touches Martha’s cheek. She still doesn’t know, she still thinks…

_I love you, but he’s my husband. I love you, but I know who I am, and this is not it. I love you, but I can’t do this. I love you, but…_

“I _love_ you,” she repeats, taking the Queen by the shoulders, and, barely daring to hope, gives her a shake. She does not budge an inch, and Martha smiles wryly. “You. I love _you. I love you.”_

When Hippolyta still does not respond, Martha throws her hands into the air and all but beats her lover’s armored chest in frustration.

“Martha…” Hippolyta begins, her voice cautious and bewildered, and Martha groans.

 _“Dammit,_ woman, _kiss_ me.”

And relief floods the Queen’s face at last, and she looks away. And when she looks back at her, her eyes are glassy, her lips parted as she tries to speak. But she only sweeps Martha up into her arms, holding her tight, and kissing her just as sweetly.

* * *

Jonathan Kent is waiting in the same room where she left him, but this time he’s seated, his long legs stretched out underneath the table, hands absently fiddling with a mug of coffee.

“Jonathan.”

He glances up at her, a ghost of a smile on his face, and it’s like the last fifteen years never happened. Just Jonathan, that boy Jonathan Kent, sitting at the table with his coffee and those worry lines in his forehead.

“Martha.” And then he pushes back his chair, rises, and says a gruff, “Come here, you.”

And she moves into his arms, rests her head against his strong shoulder, and breathes.

“So,” he says, his voice rumbling against the side of her head. “She’s pretty. And rich.”

Martha snorts and moves her head so then she can look him in the eye. He’s looking back at her, and his eyes are soft, with only the barest trace of longing in his crooked smile.

“The question is, does she treat you right?”

Martha moves her hands up to grip his shoulders, and she says firmly,

“Yes. She does.”

He looks back at her for a moment, then looks away and says,

“That’s what I like to hear.”

And then he steps away and sits back down, reaching for his coffee once more.

“I’m... sorry you had to find out this way,” Martha says hesitantly. But Jonathan Kent waves a dismissive hand.

“Oh, I knew. The Queen came and found me, years back. Said she’d met this sad, frazzled woman in man’s world—”

“Jonathan!”

“—and that she was going to find you. And I said she’s too good for you, but if she loves you...” Jonathan looks at her, his face serious now. “...then that sounds like a good plan to me. For everyone.”

Martha looks at the floor.

“I…”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

But Jonathan shakes his head.

“Don’t be. It was bound to happen, sometime.” The room falls silent, then Jonathan sighs and waves her forward. “Come here and talk to me for a minute. I’ve a bone to pick with you.”

Martha fights the urge to stay where she is, but she takes a small step forward, and no more.

“What about?”

“Clark was down here. And I hear you’re furious at me for dying and that you kept the farm all these years. What is that about?”

“Jonathan…” Martha sighs, crossing her arms and looking away.

“No, we might as well. I see that look on your face. If you have something to say, say it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You might as well.”

Martha blows the air out of her mouth and glares at the ceiling, saying nothing. Jonathan gives a short laugh and says,

“Well. Fine.”

A heavy silence falls. Jonathan picks up the cup and takes a sip. Martha thinks of the flowers still laying across her bed, dying of thirst.

“...you know, when I got here, Dan Fordman hunted me down. Kicked my ass for having the gall to die.”

 _Good,_ Martha thinks, but she winces at the abrupt surge of memories at the mention of that name—the man who first made her a widow. She shakes her head, shaking away the images of that hospital room, watching as cancer ravaged her young husband’s life, both of them barely children themselves—and then she startles, because Jonathan is watching her, his expression dark and knowing, his hands folded under his chin. And she stares back with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“You were never this cruel when you were alive, Jonathan.”

“It’s not cruel, it’s true, he did—”

“I’m not _angry_ at you,” Martha interrupts, stepping forward and dropping down into the seat across from him. “I’m… I’m _changed._ Everything changed after you died, and I had to _live_ with the guilt of closing that car door, of not making you delay that trip when I knew the weather was bad, of running to save myself when you went in the other direction…”

“Mar—”

“No, let me talk… you let me—do you know how many _times_ I saw that tornado in my nightmares? _Every time_ I was out driving and the weather turned bad, I had to pull over, even if it was just a little rain. And even to this day I haven’t driven that road again, with that damn bypass… and Clark, leaving Smallville to find his “purpose in life”—you _know_ he just did it because he felt guilty and needed to get out—and I just—I just…”

Martha shakes her head and turns her face away. The room is silent, then Jonathan grimaces and rises, making a beeline to the back of the room to fetch another cup of coffee.

“Don’t bother. I can’t drink it,” Martha snaps, crossing her arms. Jonathan sets the cup down abruptly, but doesn’t turn around.

“All right. What do you want. What—what can I do, to make it better.”

“You can look at me when you’re talking to me.”

And Jonathan sighs and slowly turns around.

“Look. I’m sorry. I… I guess I didn’t realize how much it would hurt you and Clark.”

_Well, it did._

But Martha glares at his half-drunk cup of coffee and doesn’t reply.

“It’s different from the other side. You’re dead, the story’s over. The only thing you have is the hope that the people you love are out there, living better lives because of your sacrifice—”

“Don’t go all military on me—”

“I did it for _you,_ Martha. I did it for you, I did it for _Clark,”_ Jonathan interrupts, raising his voice for the first time. “Can you imagine what that town would’ve done if Clark had saved me? The government would’ve gotten involved, they would’ve tried to take him away and do experiments and God-knows-what on him, we’d never be able to live as free people again, and the _world_ would be the same, and we would have—”

 _“We_ would have gotten through it _together.”_

Silence rings in the room. Two people, avoiding each other’s gaze, a lifetime of history binding them together, a lifetime of distance pushing them apart.

“Well.”

Jonathan comes back around to the table and sits, leaning his arms on its polished surface, his sleeves rolled up and his face with that earnest, guarded expression that he always had when he talked business.

“I’ve already apologized. It’s been years for you, centuries, _millennia_ for me. It happened, there’s nothing we can do to change that... I don’t know what you want me to do.”

And Martha Kent drops her head into her hands, fingers gripping at her hair so tightly, her scalp begins to scream. Fifteen years… fifteen years of guilt, fifteen years of pitying smiles from the townspeople, fifteen years of unpaid bills, fifteen years of trying to _move on_ in spite of everything…

“So you have one of the farms down here?”

Jonathan stares at her, unmoving, then clears his throat and says,

“Yes... I have one of the farms in the South-East corner of Elysium. Mostly corn, sometimes vegetables. Lewis and Laura Lang have the place next door, and my grandfather raises livestock, over past the hills. We have a group of kids that come over, we teach them how to farm.” Jonathan glances at her, then says hesitantly. “...maybe you might want to visit. They’d be happy to see you.”

Martha looks him in the eye, then looks away again.

“One day, maybe.”

Jonathan nods in assent, then glances around at the sparse, but richly furnished room, with its elegantly carved arches, and the mosaic depictions of victorious battles and hard-won days of peace. The marble floors, and strong oak furniture, and bronze dishware, and intricately painted pottery—these are things Smallville could never boast, not even the best homes on Main Street, not even the mansions that the wealthier farmers built for their families.

“They talked about you, you know,” Jonathan says abruptly, his eyes fixed on a fresco of Hippolyta striking the chains from Diana’s wrists, freeing her from enslavement in Tartarus. “When the Queen came and ended the rebellion, and Hades made her his heir. Rumors flying everywhere about them, whether they were involved, whether she was going to choose a consort from amongst the gods or humans. It was easy to speculate about things that seemed so distant, way off in the royal city. But she came around to visit with all of us, met with everyone in Elysium, shook our hands, told us to come and visit New Themyscira for the festivals, how to petition if we needed anything.

“And somehow, word got out that she had someone up there, alive. All the women loved it, thought it was romantic. Never in a thousand years would’ve thought…” Jonathan’s voice trails off, and he clears his throat. “Anyway, she appeared one day at the farm, asked to see me, and said she’d met you during some war.”

Jonathan is quiet for a long moment, and when he begins to speak again, his voice is thick.

“I… I admire her. She’s a good woman, a great leader. Good, fair, strong. Cares about her subjects. And the Amazons… it’s not easy what they went through. But they made it out together, and overcame. And you can see that they’re stronger for it. And if this is where you want to be, I’m happy for you. God knows you deserve a little happiness, a little freedom after everything.”

_Come home, Martha. Come home, please..._

Jonathan rises and picks up his hat.

“I… I hope you’ll be happy, Martha. And I hope we can be friends.”

Martha looks up at him. Once, she would’ve taken his hand, kissed his cheek, and followed him anywhere. But now...

“I think I’d like that.”

He stares down at her for a moment, then gives a short nod. And then he turns and walks out, leaving her alone in the Queen’s study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This concludes the first half of the ex-husband section of this story... and you know what THAT means...
> 
> (Also, LOOK up the story of Martha Kent and Dan Fordman, it is _ridiculously_ sad??? Also, HOW many times did she miscarry before the doctors told her and Jonathan to stop trying to have kids? I don't even have to make up a heartbreaking past for Martha, she already has one in the canon!)


	6. Athena's Temple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha learns the history of the Amazons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TW: PLEASE READ THIS FIRST FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.**
> 
> Okay.
> 
> This chapter is rough. It doesn’t actually depict rape, but it discusses the horror of it in relative detail. Feel free to read it, skip it, whatever you’re up for. I think it’s important character development for Hippolyta and Martha’s understanding of the Amazons (which is why I wrote it in the first place), but since you (hopefully?) already know the gist of their history, it’s not really necessary to read this for the sake for following the plot if you’d rather not.

Sharing a bed with the Queen of the Amazons is an experience.

It’s not just the experience of seeing her in something other than armor, those gold-embroidered nightgowns that had prompted Martha’s jaw to drop on their first night together, and thus prompted Hippolyta’s light, musical laugh.

_So it is not just the armor you enjoy, is it, little one?_

Hippolyta is a methodical woman, reviewing the business of the day and the business of tomorrow in her study before making her way to her bedchambers, saying goodnight to the guards, and then firmly shutting the door that keeps out the world—both living and dead. Martha will often already be in their bed, dozing, the flickering light from the fire brushing against her face.

But sometimes she is awake, and she will watch as the Queen steps behind the screen beside her wardrobe, hangs up and polishes her armor (the rasp of her sword as she pulls it from its sheath always gives Martha shivers), and emerges in her night clothes, her naked sword still in hand. And then she kneels before the fire, and the room fills with the sweet smoke of incense as she prays to her gods. Martha cannot understand the language of her prayers, but when she asks her about them once, Hippolyta explains that she thanks the gods for the blessings of the day, and asks for wisdom over the future.

When she has finished her prayers, she rises, makes her way across the room to the bed, props her sword up against the nightstand, easily within reach to seize at a moment’s notice, then draws back the curtains and smiles down at her.

Often, like tonight, Hippolyta slips into bed, and Martha crawls over to her, burrowing against the woman’s cold body, burying her face against silky hair and soft linen. And Hippolyta wraps her arms around her, and they whisper together until Martha has fallen asleep.

But tonight, Martha is troubled, and Hippolyta lies beside her, stroking her hair, gazing into her eyes, and waiting patiently for Martha to gather the courage to speak.

“...it’s nothing. No, it’s really… just... I—Jonathan said something.”

To her great credit, Hippolyta’s expression does not change at the mention of his name.

“Yes?”

“He… he said that the Amazons had suffered. That he respected you and your people because you had all suffered, and overcome. And I…”

Hippolyta’s gaze is dark as she stares steadily at her. “You wish to know the history of the Amazons?”

“It’s not a big thing, it’s just—I barely know anything about the Amazons, and yet, I live here with you, and _you,_ being their Queen, I feel like I should know at least something of your people. Of—of how you came to be.”

Hippolyta says nothing, and Martha goes on, her voice descending even further into bumbling nervousness,

“That is to say, if you don’t want to, if you would prefer to not talk about it, I understand, it’s none of my business—”

“No. You are right. You should know.” Hippolyta’s voice is low, heavy, with a deep grief that Martha has never heard before, not even in the hours following her daughter’s death.

“My darling, no—if, I would never want to hurt you, or—or dredge up old—”

“No.” Hippolyta reaches out and brushes her fingertips over Martha’s cheek. “It is our history, and our history is etched into our skin; it is the marrow of our bones, the foundation beneath our feet. You should know.”

Martha watches in silence as Hippolyta looks away, her eyes clouded. And for a moment, she’s transported back to Gotham City, the sky dark, the lake rippling in the moonlight, and this strong figure standing with her back to her, facing the world alone.

_Hippolyta…_

“But I cannot be the one to tell you.”

* * *

The night is cool, peaceful. The moon is full.

“It was on a night much like this that Diana left Themyscira.”

And Antiope steps up beside her, spear in hand, her warrior’s eyes ever watchful.

“Please, tell me you did not summon me from my bed to gaze longingly upon the land of the living,” she says, craning her neck to stare up at the tiny sliver of sky—where only the barest corner of the bright moon can be seen from the cursed ground upon which they stand. The Temple of the Gods is silent beneath their feet.

“Martha has asked about the history of the Amazons.”

Antiope is silent for a moment, then she sighs.

“And where did you stop?”

“Where do you think?”

Antiope stops looking up, rubs the back of her neck, and chooses instead to stare out over the black sea, dark and shimmering under the crescent moon. It was on a night like this that Diana first snuck out of the palace to meet her on the training field, an eager, spitfire of a child, determined to succeed and prove herself worthy of her heritage, her people.

“Will you tell her?”

“I do not know.”

“...you do not know,” Antiope repeats, her voice tight, clearly suppressing some alternative response. Hippolyta glares at her, Antiope looks away. For a moment, they stand side by side in silence, then Hippolyta sighs in resignation.

“Speak your mind, sister.”

“You _cannot_ hope to have her understand you without her knowing our history, Hippolyta,” Antiope bursts out, her voice brimming with indignance despite being barely more than whisper. “Our fight for our freedom is the lifeblood of our people, our shared experience that renders us sisters despite our differences. The fact that we rose and overcame our captors is our _pride._ And you are our Queen. Should not the woman you claim to love know the history of your rule?”

“It will destroy her.”

Antiope turns to look at her, and her eyes are gleaming fiercely in the dark, like the warrior she is.

_“What—”_

“She is utterly determined to see good in the world, the best in mankind. She believes in hope.”

“Our captors eventually sought redemption—”

“She will never look at me the same way again.”

Antiope falls silent, and Hippolyta slowly looks over at her, and there are tears in her eyes.

“And I… I cannot...”

 _“My Queen...”_ Antiope murmurs, reaching for her, but the taller woman turns away.

“And you are right. Of course, you are right. She must walk through Athena’s Temple, and look upon the Hall of the Amazons, and understand our grief, our rage, our suffering. She must see and understand what they did to us… and what they did to me.”

“Hippolyta...”

“But I cannot bear to see, when she does. It will devastate her, completely.”

Antiope lays a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder and then says softly,

“Do you not think you are underestimating her?”

“No. She has spent her entire life in the peace and safety of her homeland. These things—slavery, and hunger, and war, and violence, and human depravity—these are mere stories to her. Things that happen in other cities, other countries, other times.”

Antiope says nothing. Then she sighs and reaches up to cup her sister’s wet cheeks.

_Hippolyta..._

“Will you…”

“I will guide her through Athena’s Temple. I will tell her of our history, of mankind’s betrayal, and our triumph. I will tell her everything.”

Hippolyta closes her eyes, and Antiope pulls her down to press a kiss to her sister’s forehead.

“Do not fear, my Queen. If she truly loves you, she will understand why she must know.”

“She is so innocent… so pure and untouched by the hatred that poisons men’s hearts.”

“But she is strong,” Antiope reminds her gently. “And for you, she may still be stronger, stronger than either of you may believe possible.”

Hippolyta nods once and turns away, and Antiope rests her hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, Hippolyta... one does not fall in love with a warrior and assume that she has never seen the horrors of war.”

* * *

Martha still doesn’t have Antiope figured out.

Most of the Amazons are cordial. No one has ever shown her resentment for stealing the Queen’s attentions, in fact, most of them seem delighted that Hippolyta is apparently enamored with her, and spare no expense teasing her on her budding romance.

But Antiope has always seemed to Martha a bit of a rebel, a valued advisor to the Queen while still being that tell-tale, infuriating younger sibling. She swaggers into the courtyard during meals, often still gleaming from the training fields (goddesses may not sweat, but Amazons certainly do), and proceeds to give her sister the news and a hearty round of good-natured ribbing. And Martha is neither wicked enough to join in, nor indignant enough to request that the general stop rankling her sister.

But she’s seen her on the training fields, deadly, focused, absolutely the greatest warrior in the Underworld, second only to the Queen. And she is a leader, breaking apart fights, encouraging—or goading—those who are beaten down, inspiring an army worthy of the woman who is her sister.

The Antiope who rides now on her shaggy pony beside the black chariot is unusually subdued, somber. Occasionally, she points out the sights speeding past, remarking on the morning activities, but for the most part, she is silent and grim.

And it is this, coupled with Hippolyta’s silence and eventual disappearance last night, that makes Martha realize that something truly horrible must lie in the Amazon’s history.

* * *

Athena’s Temple lies some ways past the Temple of the Gods. While the latter is wide and grand and open, the former is set into a hill, with only a few dozen stairs leading to its modest, double-doored entrance. Martha steps out of the black chariot as Antiope dismounts and tosses aside the reins. The horses wander off together, and Martha follows as Antiope leads her into the silent hall.

 _What is this place?_ she wants to ask, but Antiope walks ahead, clearly not in the mood for discussion.

The entryway is completely devoid of artwork. Whereas the neighboring temple welcomes its visitors with a small army of statues, the front doors to this building only open to reveal a long, marble hall of doors. No decorations, no carvings, no tapestries. Even the floor is plain, white stone. Martha peers through the first open door and gasps at the sight of an enormous hall filled with depictions of Ancient Egypt. But they do not show the pyramids, the famous wall paintings, the sunk reliefs—instead, they show the workers, the slaves: the prisoners of war, the poor, the outcasts. Some works are merely lines on the walls, others are detailed and gruesome; some seem almost innocuous depictions of life, but others...

“Come along, child.”

Martha startles. Antiope has already made her way further into the temple, her small figure nearly consumed by the shadows within. Martha swallows hard, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach, and hurries to follow.

* * *

The Hall of the Amazons.

The first thing Martha sees is a statue of Athena, standing tall and cold, as if guarding this most sacred of halls from those who would desecrate it. A golden bowl of incense burns at her feet, and Antiope murmurs a prayer before she passes.

Martha follows and sees that the walls are awash with paintings, the room scattered with statues. Antiope walks beside her at the beginning, explaining the creation of mankind, their corruption and turn towards evil… and then the arrival of the Amazons, their brief peace together, the battles fought side by side in harmony with the tribes of man.

And then Antiope pauses, and they stand together in the shadows, Martha waiting in trepidation for the general to find the words she wishes to say.

“...when the Queen finally told us of your existence, we were ecstatic. She is a true Amazon: fearless, guiltless, untamed… but throughout the years, she has allowed none to take up permanent residence in her private chambers, allowing none to love her, despite many amongst our people who longed for her.

“When she arrived in Hades and refused even the festival rites, we feared the worst, that something had happened when she ventured into Man’s World. But she finally acknowledged that you existed, and we wept for joy together… she is our beloved Queen, our valiant leader. Too long, she has lived with the guilt of what her last foray into love led to, the grief it caused her, caused _all_ of us.”

There is a moment of silence, then Antiope nods upwards. And when Martha Kent follows her gaze, she finds herself staring at the likeness of a man. The details of the painting are crude, clearly meant to portray the figure in a harsh, bitter light, but even she recognizes the lion skin, the muscular frame, the leering face.

_Heracles…_

* * *

The images begin innocently enough. The arrival of Heracles and his men to the land of the Amazons, the proposed duel between demigod and Queen. There are many works celebrating her victory against her challenger, some showing her standing over him, a sword thrusted against his neck, others showing him flying backwards over the sandy arena, eyes wide with fear, and Hippolyta in the background, her hands balled into fists, her face blazing with the joy of triumph. Some even dare to show them in more erotic poses suggestive of their initial romance, but always, these paintings are filled with trepidation: vipers along the bottom of the frames, dark clouds looming on the horizon; the inklings of an innocent, but ill-fated love.

“There was a time of peace after Heracles’ defeat, but no Amazon has been moved to recall such things,” Antiope says, beckoning her forward. “To our minds, there was no peace, only the subdued whispers of treachery, until he chose the hour to reveal his true face.”

The paintings turn dark with jarring abruptness. These are not masterpieces created by skilled artists in well-lit studios, they are drawings scribbled with pieces of charcoal, lines and smears of blood turned rusty brown. Most only depict shadows, looming figures, bound limbs, open mouths, naked skin.

But in time, the works become more detailed, the faces recognizable, the images damningly clear of the betrayal and enslavement and rape of the Amazons by Heracles and his men.

Martha Kent looks upon the scenes of horror, and she recognizes the faces, the warriors, the women who she sees from day to day in the city, the general who stands before her now, the Queen who holds her heart in her hands...

“What… what is this? Who would—would create, commission such terrible images?”

“These works were not commissioned. They were created by those whose lives had been torn from them. They were created as a way to cope with their suffering, as a way to express their thoughts, when words did not suffice.

“The Queen ordered that they be collected and displayed together, so that we will always remember that life is a privilege, and that we suffer no more.”

The paintings move from raw, breathtaking realism to shadows, bizarre, macabre—leering animal faces in the place of human heads, skeletons contorted in agony, angry strokes of black paint upon white canvas—these works do not even attempt to convey beauty, only horror.

“Above all the others, they tormented our Queen, knowing she was our source of inspiration, our pride, our beloved ruler.” Antiope’s voice is low and lifeless as they walk forward. Some of the images, like those in the other wings, are crude depictions, others are weeping with details, but all convey the agony of the Amazon’s pain. “We suffered together, child. We suffered, knowing we could not defend her. We suffered, knowing we could not stop them from subjecting each of us to the same fate.”

_No more, no more, no more…_

She doesn’t want to, but her feet move forward, and her eyes flicker over image after image, each one more terrible than the next.

“How… how _could they?”_

Her voice is cracked and broken, and Antiope turns to gaze at her.

“My child, you needn’t go on. You have looked upon the Halls of the Amazons, you have learned our history—”

“No, tell me… what were they trying to _accomplish?”_

And Antiope looks down at the frightened woman and looks away again.

_She is so innocent… so pure and untouched by the hatred that poisons men’s hearts._

“They were trying to break her, she, who dared to best their King.” Antiope’s voice is barely a whisper, but it echos off of the high ceiling before it is swallowed by the solemn quiet of the room, and yet… the halls ring with memories, history...

“...and did they?”

Antiope bows her head. And she remembers the long nights during their imprisonment, listening to her sister thrash in the dark, barely able to move against the chains binding her… the bright arenas, the cheers and laughter of the men as they were dragged out onto the stage, one by one, as if they were animals…

_Oh, Hippolyta, do not fight against them, it will only spur them on…_

“Yes.”

The room is still. The images surrounding them cry out with unspoken tears, unspoken grief, unspoken despair.

And Martha Kent lets out a choked sob and turns away.

* * *

_But it did not last._

They reach the end of the hall.

Slavery gives way to revolt, revolt gives way to freedom, freedom gives way to life.

A gauntlet of sorts.

Martha hesitates.

“I… I think I would like to stay here. For some time. Alone.”

Antiope pauses.

“I have instructions to see you safely back to the palace-”

“I know, I just… I need to think. I need to…”

And her eyes are pleading. Pleading and broken and confused, and Antiope has half a mind to refuse, or to insist that she stay as well, and not leave the woman alone in this place. But she knows many survivors come to Athena’s Temple to mourn, and that, at least, she will not deny the human woman.

“Very well. I will wait for you outside.”

She wants to say more. She wants to reach out, comfort her, reassure her, but there is nothing she can say. She bows her head, turns and makes her way down the hall and disappears.

And Martha Kent turns and slowly looks back up at the paintings, the sculptures… and she begins to walk, arms hugging herself, her eyes darting over the faces…

_Oh, Hippolyta, my brave, brave girl…_

And she slips down to her knees, the palm of her hand meeting the stone floor like a child learning to walk, and then she presses a fist to her mouth, her shoulders beginning to shake, no longer able to suppress her unshed tears. 


	7. Everything Changes, Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha has something she needs to do before returning to New Themyscira.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be safe, a brief TW for violence/how Heracles died.

A strong wind is sweeping over the entrance to the Temple of Athena. Martha can see Antiope’s pacing figure far below, her back turned, eyes watching the training fields in the distance. For a moment, Martha considers making her way down the steps to her, returning to New Themyscira in this cold, empty trance, but…

There is something. Something she needs to do, something to give her the peace of mind to look into the faces of the women who had always been friendly and gracious to her, something to give her the courage to look into her lover’s eyes and kiss her without guilt.

She raises her hand, and in another moment the black chariot is visible on the horizon. Antiope shields her eyes as she turns to watch as Aethon and Nyctaeus bow before Martha’s small figure at the top of the stairs, as Martha climbs in and takes the reins. Aethon whinnies a question, and Martha closes her eyes, then says in a low, broken voice,

“Take me to Heracles.”

* * *

Tartarus is even more terrible than she had imagined.

The horses drive deeper and deeper into the pit, past sinners and demons being punished alike, past those screaming in agony, and those screaming in rage. The cries of the tormented would have driven her mad mere hours ago… but she has entered the Temple of Athena, and walked the Hall of the Amazons, and she is changed. She understands now the depths of human depravity, the necessity of punishment.

If those in Elysium had rushed out to welcome her, those in the Inferno stare with wordless, breathtaking audacity. The horses do not linger, but the eyes of the inhabitants follow her as they make their way to the seventh circle of hell. Martha counts each ring, each door as they descend further and further into the bitter cold. This is the one place Hippolyta had not shown her in all of their months together in the Underworld, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she wonders if this pit simply goes on for eternity… if, perhaps, she should have petitioned to make this visit, if there are not some rules about safely visiting the worst corner of Hades.

Martha is jerked away from her frightened thoughts as an enormous, hulking shadow lumbers forward to meet them at the end of the tunnel. It is a bull, standing upright, roaring angrily, but Aethon lets out a high-pitched squeal, and the beast stumbles out of the way as the black chariot speeds past.

They emerge into a wide cavern, and Martha ducks as a howling rush of cold air bites into her skin. The dirt path narrows, beset on both sides with boiling pools of blood and liquid fire, like some grisly paddy fields, like the blazing poppies of Persephone. The heat presses into her from below, and the cold from above, with no respite from either. Martha pulls the horses back to a trot as she scans the submerged faces, wondering if she would even recognize Heracles if she saw him.

_The Lady has come…_

The whispers whistle past her ears, but the horses plod on as if they know their destination. And all at once, the room opens up, like the entrance of Sears that opens up to the atrium of the mall, except this time, Sears only sells fire and brimstone, and the mall is nine levels of punishment and justice.

Martha reins in the horses. Always before, she had thought Tartarus was a wasteland, smoldering like hot coals behind those mountains, but now, standing in the hollow center, she can see that it is truly a pit. The ceiling is so high up above, it might as well be the sky, and there, maybe fifty yards down, she can see the frozen lake, encased with bodies, thrashing heads. The horses whine, but Martha tosses aside the reins and steps down from her chariot like the Virgin Mary herself, because there, directly before her is Heracles in the flesh.

His back is to her, and his golden hair clings to his gleaming skin as he strains to roll a massive stone up a mountain that stretches to the impossibly distant ceiling. His grunts of effort are still audible over the dark chatter of hell.

_The stone represents his arrogance. If he reaches the top, he will be granted release from this torture._

Martha does not know who whispers to her, whether it is some invisible demon, or one of the gasping heads bobbing at her feet, but she does not stop, not even as whips crack in her wake, and blood splatters onto her robe.

“Heracles!”

The figure lets out a loud, angry groan, then the stone goes rolling back down, and the man himself must sprint faster than a horse in order to catch it before it sails into one of the sticky pools, or onto the slick ice further below.

“θάλασσα καὶ πῦρ καὶ γυνή, κακὰ τρία,” he shouts out with a barking laugh when he spots her, and then he has caught the boulder and is pushing it towards the mountain once more.

_Sea, fire, and women, three disasters._

“Walk with me, lady—lest you have come to hurl insults at my back,” he calls to her over his shoulder, one careless hand waving towards her, the other rolling the stone along.

Martha treads across the hot shale littering the foot of the mountain. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows that they are bones, old fragments of wretched lives, but she does not allow herself to dwell on it. All at once, she is there, standing before the man who brought so much pain and misery to the people she now loves as her own.

He is beautiful.

And he is young, far younger than she ever would’ve imagined, barely a year or two older than Clark had been when he left the farm after high school. His face, despite being flushed and sweaty, has an open, honest nobility to it, a charming, easy-going arrogance. He looks nothing like the beefy, hairy versions of the “World’s Strongest Men” who swaggered across Earth, or the shadowed, rage-filled paintings of the Amazons.

“You… _you_ are Heracles?” Martha stammers, confusion stealing away her breath. “You are the defiler of the Amazons?”

The man—boy looks at her incredulously, then recognition floods his face, and that mouth widens to reveal a rueful smile.

“So the Queen’s chosen one has come to me at last.”

“You are a _child,”_ Martha says, her rage and fury shaken down to uncertainty, making her even angrier, even more bewildered.

“I’m older than I look.”

And with that, he grunts and turns, walking backwards this time as he rolls the stone against his shoulders, his teeth still bared in a half-grimace, half-mocking smile.

“...she offered you an escape from this, she offered you forgiveness,” Martha says, almost as if in a trance as she watches him struggle. All of her thoughts of tearing apart this monster limb by limb, all of her rage is tossed into turmoil at the sight of a suffering child.

“I know. I was there.” He speaks English with a strange, posh accent, twisting the syllables in a way that seems mocking. Martha walks slowly, following as the worn path begins to steepen, and he begins to pant heavily.

“You loved her.”

“I know. I was there,” he repeats almost humorously, blowing the hair out of his face, and scowling at the demons who hover overhead, whips in hand. “Give it a _rest,_ fools, can’t you see I have a guest?”

The demons hiss, but withdraw slightly, and Heracles gasps, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as his bare feet stumble momentarily against the sharp stones.

“...how could you?”

The beautiful boy grunts, and raises a finger, then lets out a dismayed shout as the stone slips from his grasp and goes bouncing once more down the mountain.

“Stay that thought, lady, I will return...” he calls as he goes bounding after it. And she is forced to watch his childish, graceful leaps as he seizes the mountain of a stone and begins pushing it towards her once more.

_God, Hippolyta..._

“My—men,” Heracles begins, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm, then shaking his wet fist as one of the demons lashes out at him. “Enough—enough! _Hera_ take you all—my apologies, lady—my _men_ were unhappy with the outcome of my duel with the Queen, and they threatened to rise up against me.”

“I don’t care about that,” Martha snaps as the boy amicably rolls the stone past her. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, your sick rationing of it in your mind. I want to know _how_ you could do it, order them to tear her apart, the woman you loved, in front of your eyes.”

Hercules struggles some feet away from her, his heels digging into the dirt, and then the stone falls once more, and he is left alone to stare back at her.

“It was easier than I anticipated.”

_“...what?”_

He shrugs and moves as if to follow his bane, but she catches his elbow, and she forces herself to stare into his angelic face, his soft eyes that must have gazed so tenderly into the Queen’s when they laid together at night.

“It was a different time, lady,” he says, his voice almost gentle as he looks upon her horrified expression. “The rules of war do not belong in times of peace. The Amazons knew that they had been beaten, defeated in their own homes, like the Trojans by the Greeks.”

“You _defiled_ them.”

 _“They_ were the ones who lived to tell the story. Had we succeeded, history might have looked upon us more kindly. We did nothing wrong—if they had lured us into their arms and killed us in our sleep, I would have called it nothing but a well-earned victory.”

“What, so it’s just a game to you?” Martha demands. “Just a game, so your deeds, your _crimes_ go unpunished?”

“Unpunished? Perhaps... although my men and I _did_ die, so...” he replies with a smile, then he pulls away from her grasp and goes bounding off once more, dancing in a zig-zag away from the demons pursuing him with their whips. Martha crosses her arms and refuses to watch. When she left the Temple of Athena, it seemed so clear to her what she needed to do, to face Heracles, give him a piece of her mind, but now...

“If you must speak of love, lady,” his voice calls as he pushes the boulder towards her yet again. “I _never_ loved her more than the moment she choked the life from me with her own chains. Oh, yes,” he adds, his eyes shining as she reluctantly turns to look at him. “They plotted in silence, like the warriors they were, and when the hour came, they slew all of my men, one by one, until only I was left. When they dragged me before her, she was drenched in the blood of my brothers. I saw their headless bodies burning in the fire, and her sword was so caked with red, I knew she had decapitated each man herself, like the Queen she was... _Even now, I mourn,_ she whispered only for me as she draped her broken chains across my shoulders, gentle as a lover. And she did not flinch _once_ as I gasped and flailed in her arms.

“It was truly a beautiful way to die.”

 _“Roll,”_ one of the demons growls, lashing its whip soundly against Heracles’ back, but the demigod catches the twisted rawhide in his fist and jerks, sending the demon flying down to the frozen lake with a shriek.

“Is your curiosity sated now, lady?” he says, holding up the boulder with one hand while he inclines his head with a mocking bow. “May I have your permission to return to my eternal torment?”

“You’re _mad.”_ But the insult is weak, shaky, and Martha knows it.

Heracles laughs aloud. “Thus saith the living woman, standing before me in the pit of Tartarus by _choice?_ Nay, human, I know why you are here. You came here to punish me for my sins. But do you really think there is anything you could do that she already has not?”

He leans forward and kisses her cheek, the motion so abrupt and unexpected, Martha can only stumble back, her eyes wide with shock, face twisted with disgust.

 _“There_ you are. Go now and proclaim your eternal hatred for Heracles to the saints. Unless, of course, you would like to visit with the Betrayer in the frozen lake? He would surely enjoy that trinket around your neck.”

_Even now, I mourn…_

And Martha stares at the ridiculous young demigod, and his easy confidence, and foolish grin, and brazen charm- everything about him the antithesis of what she had expected, and all at once, she understands why Hippolyta had fallen in love with this arrogant rogue, why she mourned his death even as she executed him, why she had offered him redemption even after everything, even now...

“Martha!”

Heracles turns away at once, wrestling busily with the enormous boulder, and Martha turns her red, puffy eyes to her lover’s furious face. Her eyes are blazing. Martha quickly looks away and sees the Queen’s guard is stationed at the bottom of the mountain, arrows taut, spears and swords at the ready.

“Are you hurt?”

Martha shakes her head soundlessly, but Hippolyta reaches up and touches her cheek, where Heracles’ spittle still burns. She swears an angry curse; low, unintelligible words in Ancient Greek, and then says coldly,

“Take her away.”

_“My Queen…”_

But already she can feel one of the horse noses nudging her shoulder, the black chariot hovering behind her over the cursed mountain.

“Hippolyta,” she says, a tiny bit louder this time. The Queen turns her warrior’s eyes to look down upon her, and Martha steps forward and kisses her.

Those cold lips are frozen in shock as Martha’s touch hers, but they melt at once against her, a leather-bound hand reaching up to stroke her hair as Martha’s arms slide around her neck and pull her close.

It’s the first time they’ve ever kissed in front of the watching eyes of others.

Not even while leaving the Senate hand-in-hand, or sitting together at meals, or while strolling the gardens with the Queen’s Guard close behind have they indulged in such reckless displays of affection.

It is a power play, and Martha knows it.

But she regrets nothing, here, upon this mountain of Sisyphus, with the demons frozen in mid-air, whips hanging forgotten at their sides, and the sinners staring open-mouthed, rapidly blinking the blood and sweat out of their eyes, and Heracles…

Heracles is forgotten.

When Martha pulls away, she touches her lover’s cheek, brushing her fingers against the frosty golden crown that lays against her skin, then raises her head and says,

“Hippolyta?”

And the Queen looks down at her, eyes gleaming with grudging admiration, then she slowly slides down to her knees, hands planted on Martha’s waist, kneeling before her like she had on their first morning together, in that bright guest room…

“Yes, little one?”

Her voice is shaky.

“I’m cold.”

Hippolyta stares at her.

“Take me home.”

The Queen looks down, shakes her head almost in exasperation, then gathers her into her arms, and Martha just barely catches a glimpse of her fierce smile before she flies her up to the ceiling of Tartarus, faster than the speed of light.

* * *

Later that night, there’s more kissing, and as they lie facing each other in bed, Hippolyta urges Martha to ask her anything at all. For a long time, Martha doesn’t say a word, she just twists silky curls of gold around her fingers. And then she says in a small voice,

_Does it still hurt?_

And Hippolyta answers, and the room is dim and comfortable and safe and warm, and Martha pulls the heavy blankets up to her chin and snuggles against her, listening to her soft voice murmuring into her ear. The night wears on. Sometimes, Hippolyta pauses, and Martha focuses on playing with her long, pale fingers, staring as if she’s reading her palm.

 _And then what happened?_ she says when she’s ready again to hear more, and Hippolyta goes on, until there is nothing more to tell.

 _You were so brave today,_ she murmurs as Martha’s breath slows, her eyelids beginning to droop. _How the bards will sing of you, my light in darkness: the woman from Man’s World, storming the gates of Tartarus and challenging a demigod…_

And just as Martha Kent drifts off into a dreamless sleep, she feels the Queen wrapping her cold arms around her and whispering,

_I love you, my little moon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I actually planned on this chapter ending differently (with more angst! And anger!), but it just felt better for Heracles to be less of a cliche jerk, and for Hippolyta to not even deign to glance in his direction.
> 
> (I also think it is ironic that Martha's ex is this big, solemn oak tree of a man, and Hippolyta's is basically a twink who got too drunk on his own power... plus I hate traditional!Hercules and refuse to write Hippolyta ever falling in love with someone like that).
> 
> ALSO, just so you know the schedule, we ARE on track for the double-chapter smut scene to be posted on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. So whether you celebrate Christmas or not, prepare yourselves for a holiday of SIN. :D
> 
>  ~~Also, this is the last chapter until… Chapter 13? that features men.~~ :P


	8. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha asks.

Snow.

It was never this cold on Themyscira. But when Hippolyta cleared the gloom and spiderwebs from the Underworld, she reestablished the four seasons. Antiope grumbled about ice and snow on the training field, but Hippolyta had reminded her that battles could happen in winter just as often as summer, and the general said no more.

On the night that the first snowflakes of winter kiss the ground, the Queen presents her lover with a warm coat trimmed with sable fur. Martha gasps with delight and puts it on right over her nightgown, turning in circles to look at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Hippolyta’s eyes are shining as she pulls the hood over her head and giggles like a child.

“God, I look like an Eskimo.”

But she slips her bundled arms around Hippolyta’s neck and tickles her face with the fur surrounding her head.

“Let’s go somewhere absolutely freezing and build an igloo. I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like, living in a house made of ice.”

Hippolyta smiles at Martha’s antics and nuzzles her warm little human.

“A house of ice? Am I not cold enough for you, my love?”

“Hmm, you’re right,” Martha says, stepping away, shrugging out of the coat, burying her face in the soft fur, then reluctantly laying it aside. “You _are_ very cold, and if it’s going to start snowing…”

“Well, fetch thee another blanket, for I shall embrace you so tightly, you will be shivering…” Hippolyta says airily, fetching said blanket herself from where it had been warming by the fire, and wrapping it around Martha’s shoulders before leaning in to whisper into her ear, “...with _pleasure.”_

Martha lets out a soft moan at her words, then she huffs in irritation at her own damn lack of self-restraint.

“Well, if we’re buying clothes for each other…”

Hippolyta waits patiently for her to finish her sentence, but the woman only glances over the goddess’ body and promptly turns bright red.

“Each other...?” Hippolyta prompts with a suppressed laugh, and Martha abruptly turns away.

“You shush.”

“Martha _Kent,”_ Hippolyta says, sweeping her up into her arms and sitting her onto the bed in front of her. And then she leans over and rests her forehead against hers, giving her no escape from her gaze. “Your eyes are burning with lust, my love. Tell me your desires.”

“No.”

Hippolyta kisses her, leaning further and further in until Martha’s back hits the pile of furs. She pushes at her, breathless and laughing, but Hippolyta does not let her up.

“Are you sure?” the Queen says in a low, suggestive murmur, and at last, Martha raises her chin and stares defiantly back at her, then says in a small voice,

 _“Fine…_ I was going to say, if we’re buying clothes for each other, I would love to see you in some... pretty nightclothes.”

“That seems overly safe.”

“Well, I _said —” _

“Say what you mean, little one.”

 _“God,_ Hippolyta.”

“Say it.”

“I want _you,”_ Martha whines, and she reaches up to grip at Hippolyta’s loose hair, digging her fingers in, pulling hard against her scalp. “I want to _see_ you. And touch you, and—and…”

“...and?”

_“Hippolyta.”_

“That is a name, darling, not an action.”

And Martha pushes her away.

 _“Why_ did I have to fall in love with such an evil woman?”

Hippolyta laughs aloud and withdraws, allowing Martha to crawl away and bury herself under a pile of heavy pelts.

“I have seen your stares in my wake, human woman. I know what you want.”

The lump of fur shudders slightly, and Hippolyta waves a hand to dim the tall pitcher of light beside the bed, then slips under the covers to join her embarrassed lover.

“My darling, there is no shame in your desires.”

The shapeless figure that is Martha Kent does not move for a long moment, then a small hand pokes out from beneath dark beaver pelt, scrabbling across the long, soft fur, searching for cold, lifeless skin. Hippolyta reaches out to touch her fingertips, like God and Man, and the hand relaxes. And they lie together in the dark, skin barely touching, yet together, completely together.

“Hippolyta…” a soft voice finally breathes from beneath the furs. “... _when?”_

And for once the Queen doesn’t tease her. “When you ask for it.”

The words settle, then Martha emerges from beneath the pile of blankets, skin flushed, eyes unblinking, expression confused and mistrusting. Hippolyta raises an eyebrow.

“...are you asking?”

“I’ve been asking since the day you _brought_ me here,” Martha exclaims incredulously, reaching up to push her own hair away from her damp face.

“I know, little one, but…”

_There was so much you did not understand._

And Martha quiets as realization sinks in. Then she turns over and stares up at the dark ceiling, watching the shadows from the fire dancing across.

“How long has it been? Since you’ve… been with a woman?”

Hippolyta props herself up on an elbow and looks down at her.

“The Festival of Psyche was two days before Steppenwolf’s attack.”

Martha bites her lip, suppressing the swell of jealousy that rushes into her.

“What was her name?”

“I do not know.”

“What?” Martha turns to look at her in disbelief. “How can you not _know?”_

“She was wearing a dark veil the entire time.”

“...why?”

“It is a part of the festival rites, to mimic the visits of Eros.”

“You _Amazons…”_ Martha groans, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

“And you?”

“Oh, please, I haven’t been with anyone since Jonathan died.”

“...so long ago?” Hippolyta’s voice is gentle.

“It’s a small town, word gets around... plus Clark with his super-hearing, you never know.”

Hippolyta is silent for a long moment, then she brushes her fingertips over Martha’s bare arm.

“And you’ve never—”

“With a woman? No. _Although…”_ Martha’s voice trails off as she turns and looks her lover in the eye. “My best friend from high school and I—I’ve never told anyone this—we snuck out once during senior year and went to a strip club in Wichita.”

The Queen clearly doesn’t understand half of what she said, but she raises an eyebrow and says benignly,

“And what happened there?”

“Oh, I didn’t do anything, it was just, she had _lap dance_ on her bucket list, and she let me tag along and watch. It was the first and last time I saw a naked woman who wasn’t, you know… someone from my own family, or something.”

Martha attempts to shrug nonchalantly, but Hippolyta seems unfazed by her nervous babbling.

“What was she like, this woman who you watched?”

“She—she was pretty.”

Hippolyta shakes her head, and Martha rolls her eyes.

“Now what?”

“Tell me without _shame,”_ Hippolyta says, reaching out and touching her cheek, her gaze earnest. “Tell me what you desire, little one. I want to hear what you enjoy.”

Martha squirms, then relents and says,

“I… I don’t know. I was uncomfortable for most of it. It seemed strange, like women shouldn’t be on display like that. But then my friend picked her dancer and we went to a private room and… it was different. It felt less dirty, and more… liberating, that women could express themselves and love their bodies. I mean, I’m sure that’s a whole lot of nonsense—it was a strip club in the city, for God’s sake. But she danced for us, and it was less—less of a peepshow, less of a tease, and more of a strong, graceful thing, more sinuous, more sensual. And then she did the lap dance, and the way she moved was just… and—and she let my friend touch her breasts, and it... it didn’t seem dirty at all, they just whispered to each other the entire time, flirting and teasing each other, and...”

Martha’s voice trails off, almost as if catching herself.

“It’s… it is so strange to talk about. I’ve never talked about it, to anyone. Any of this. Anything.”

Hippolyta watches her in silence for a moment, then she reaches out and brushes her fingertips over Martha’s lips. Her mouth parts slightly, her eyes watching every movement.

“What are you thinking?”

And Hippolyta does not answer for a long moment, but when she does her voice is thick.

“I also want you.”

Martha stares back.

“Do you?”

 _“Hera help me,_ I do.”

They stare at each other, then Martha leans forward and kisses her.

 _“Then take me,”_ she whispers. Her heart is pounding so loudly, she’s sure the guards outside can hear it. And Hippolyta kisses her back, then she murmurs against her trembling lips,

“Tomorrow.”

Martha pulls back slightly.

“What? No, _today.”_

 _“Tomorrow,_ impatient one,” Hippolyta chides, but she’s smiling as she presses a single finger against Martha’s protesting mouth. “I will have to prepare.”

“...prepare?”

* * *

_We will need a safeword._

When Martha finds Myrrha laying her lunch onto the balcony outside the Queen’s sleeping quarters, she assumes there is a reason she is being held back from the communal morning meal.

She didn’t think it was to discuss… that.

“Sears.”

“What is a Sears?”

“A department store. It’s hell.”

“...but you are _in_ hell. The Underworld, at least.”

“I know. And when I went down to Tartarus, I thought to myself, _Oh, this is just like Sears._ But it’s perfect: If you’re trying to give me a good time and I’m thinking about Sears, you’re definitely doing it wrong.”

“...Martha?”

“Yes?”

“You had many admirers when you were a youth, didn’t you.”

 _“What?”_ Martha’s voice is incredulous, guilty. “...no, I—I wouldn’t say many. I had a few. Some who lasted longer than others… why?”

But Hippolyta only smiles a secretive smile and goes on with her questions.

“What do you want?”

Martha pauses, studying the woman’s now solemn face for a moment, then shaking her head slightly and saying,

“What?”

“I wish to know what it is you’re asking me for.”

_Everything._

“...what do you mean?” she asks instead. Hippolyta smiles, but besides the faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes, there is nothing but frank earnestness in her expression.

“The Amazons believe it is sacred, to touch another’s body for the first time…” Hippolyta says quietly, her fingertips reaching across the table to brush against Martha’s knuckles. “But _you…_ you are different. This is not a simple ritual, a ceremony between subject and Queen. You are my…. you are mine.”

“I want what you have. What you do. The Amazons.”

“My darling, you can have anything you wish, you do not need to conform to what my people—”

“It is what I want. You asked me what I wanted, didn’t you? _This.”_ She waves her hand towards the archway, where the Amazons are milling around in the square below, seated together around cooking fires, bowls in hand, dueling together in the weak winter sunlight. “Make me feel like an Amazon, Hippolyta. Make me feel... powerful.”

“Power is not important—”

“Why are you arguing with me?” Martha scolds, but she squeezes the woman’s hand, and Hippolyta flushes and looks away. “This is not the senate floor, Hippolyta. You don’t always have to make everything into an argument that you can win.”

“That… that is _treason,”_ Hippolyta snaps, throwing back her head in magnificent outrage, but her eyes are sparkling. Martha laughs and opens her mouth to reply, but the woman moves quicker than her tongue, and in an instant, she is swept up into the goddess’ arms, and carried across the room to their bed.

“We’re doing this _now?”_ Martha asks incredulously, watching as the room flashes by and cotton sheets appear beneath her. Hippolyta leans over and kisses her, long and deep, and for a split-second, Martha thinks that maybe afternoon sex wouldn’t be such a terrible idea after all, but the Queen pulls away after an intense moment, and her eyes are adoring as she stares down at her.

“I want to show you something.”

“A lot of something, I hope,” Martha says comfortably, leaning back against the pillows and trying to hide the fact that she’s still winded from their little speed-trip across the room, and that _kiss_... Hippolyta sighs at her antics, but she disappears and reappears rather quickly, and her touch is gentle as she takes Martha’s wrist and circles it with a length of rope.

“Look,” Hippolyta says quietly, pulling Martha close so she can murmur over her shoulder into her ear. “If you pull against it as such—” she demonstrates by tugging lightly at the rope, and it holds true. “—you cannot get free. But if you turn your hand—” Her hands dwarf Martha’s as she turns them to the side, and then pulls them free of the rope. “Do you see?”

Martha turns her head, her nose brushing against Hippolyta’s cold cheek, and she raises an eyebrow.

“I always knew you Amazons were something else, but…”

Hippolyta flashes a smile that can only be described as wicked, and in another instant, the rope is tight against Martha’s wrist once more.

“Show me.”

Martha tugs plaintively against the rope, her eyes never leaving Hippolyta’s face. The Queen is studying their wrestling hands with almost professional interest, but her pupils are spreading wider by the second, and there’s a stiff restraint to her expression as Martha pulls harder and harder against the unrelenting rope.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Martha asks in a low voice, trying—and failing—to hide the satisfied glee from her tone. Hippolyta huffs, then pulls away and rises up before her.

“So the gods have deemed it my fate to be destroyed by a woman with a wicked heart and a taunting smile,” Hippolyta says, feigning resignation and tossing her head. “So be it. But I shall have my vengeance, human woman.”

She bends down over Martha’s grinning face, and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Free yourself, my love, or I shall not bind you tonight.”

Martha pouts, but raises her hands, waving her freed wrist and the limp rope in front of her lover’s face. Hippolyta captures her hand and brushes her lips over her wrist, lingering over her pulse point. Then she lays it gently back down against the cotton sheets and tucks a strand of grey hair behind her ear.

_Hippolyta..._

“I will see you tonight.”

And then she rises up and disappears without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! And oof, is this a rough draft, but it shall be edited after Christmas, and I will also get to review replies either on Christmas or the day after. :)
> 
> Also... I know it's a bit tedious for them to be doing all this talking before smut happens (Diana and Isabel basically only... argued? And then they were in bed together? Good going, you two!) but I think Hippolyta knows that Martha is pretty new to this whole thing—as she said in chapter three—and she doesn't want to take advantage of her OR scare her. 
> 
> ~~Plus, she's going to do some things to her that require quite a bit of mutual trust, soooooo~~
> 
> See you tomorrow!!!


	9. The Feast of Aphrodite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited smut, part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful miss_belivet for betareading this chapter and the next chapter! :)

Hippolyta is not at the evening meal.

Martha stands at the courtyard entrance, craning her neck, watching as the swirls of snow dance around the roaring torches lining the walkways, but the Queen is nowhere to be seen. The customary “food from the land of the living” is spread out behind the high table, though, and Myrrha is standing behind the Queen’s empty chair, waiting.

“Martha Kent!”

Antiope is coming through the crowd toward her, and she is beckoning her forward.

“We have been waiting for you.”

“Where is the Queen?” Martha asks, hurrying forward, taking care to not trip into one of those torches.

_It’s for you… the dead don’t feel the cold. It’s for you._

“She has gone to the Temple of the Gods. Do not fear,” Antiope adds, seeing the flash of worry on her face. “She only goes to pray for their blessings over your… night. She will meet you then. You have your own ritual to prepare, child.”

“You… know about, you know our...” Martha stumbles over her words, ducking her head, all at once glad for winter’s early sunsets.

“Of course. It is a great celebration, the Feast of Aphrodite, and for our beloved Queen? We will spare no expense.”

_They will tell our story to the generations…_

“My lady, your meal,” Myrrha says quietly, but her eyes are sparkling as she serves Martha her food.

“I understand now why she wished to wait,” Martha murmurs to herself. By daylight, the entire Underworld would know…

“Do you? I do not,” Antiope says, taking a long drink of wine and waving away the Amazons who are approaching with boughs of flowers and baskets of fruit. “She waited _thousands_ of years for you, and when she finally brought you here, she waited even _more._ We expected this long, long ago, but _no,_ the deed must be done out of pure, refined _love._ Truly, Martha Kent, you had the misfortune of catching the attention of the most ridiculous woman in our history.”

“Peace, Antiope, she is our Queen,” Myrrha scolds, taking the wine glass from her and replacing it with something that looks suspiciously like water.

“She is my _sister,_ Myrrha, and she has been celibate long enough,” Antiope dismisses. “How quiet the halls have been without the sounds of her conquests! Folly touched her eyes the moment she caught sight of you, child. And a deep affliction it must be indeed, for her to wait so patiently for this day.”

“Her Majesty has been _blessed_ with the gift of patience, General, a skill that you, yourself, could be set upon to practice,” a muscular woman from further down the table interjects, her voice low and smooth. But she is smiling as she inclines her head to Martha’s blushing face. “Do not listen to this drunken fool, Lady. We only wish every happiness upon you and our Queen. Already, you have lightened her step and brought laughter to her eyes, and for that, we love you all the more.

“It will be our honor to prepare you for the Feast of Aphrodite.”

* * *

The evening meal is finally over.

Martha spent the entire time picking at her plate, trying to swallow small mouthfuls, and the food sticking to her throat. She can’t remember the last time she was this nervous- a good nervous, not a, “Clark going to a Senate hearing at the US Capitol” nervous. She wishes desperately that Hippolyta were here to smile knowingly at her as the Amazons recounted their favorite exploits, reminisced about their still-living friends and lovers. Antiope tells the long tale of how she wooed the Amazon Priestess, Menalippe, and the women listen with stars in their eyes.

But at last, the dishes have been cleared away, the last of the sweet mead poured, and the Amazons rise together at a nod from Antiope.

“Martha Kent…”

Once, Martha might have been terrified of this, the entire dead Amazon army standing and facing her, staring at her with solemn, knowing eyes. And as she rises, her legs are shaky, her living heart pounding in her ears. But when Antiope smiles and extends her hand, she smiles back and grips her fingers like a newborn.

“Come with us, child. It is time.”

* * *

_Golden Aphrodite… hear my prayer._

As the Queen of Themyscira, Hippolyta went often to the temple to pray, to seek the wisdom of the gods. Despite seeing them raining down from the sky, bodies hacked to pieces by the blade of Ares, she had believed that they still heard, listened, and answered the prayers of the Amazons.

Now, she can stand before them as a peer, summon them before her throne, and yet, she still finds comfort in wandering the sacred halls of the Temple of the Gods, whispering her prayers up to the silence of the night sky.

_May grey-eyed Athena smile down upon us._

Once, she might have approached the altars of the gods on her knees, bowed low until her forehead touched the marble floor, but now, she approaches them openly, head up, eyes turned forward.

_Bless this union, great Hera, for which I have waited so long…_

The incense sparks, and a wisp of smoke begins to rise from the cold silver bowl. And for a long time, Hippolyta stands before the stone figures of the gods, watching as the fragrant smoke curls its way up marbled bone and sinew, rising like the moon to the very ceiling of the Underworld.

* * *

She can hear Martha’s heart pounding long before she even catches sight of the palace. The sound of the Amazons’ whispering voices retreat, and Hippolyta pauses, leaning her forehead against the solid oak door leading to her rooms. Her chambers are completely empty: not even the guards risk intruding on such a sacred event. And still she waits, because ever since she crossed the threshold into the land of the dead, she had imagined this moment, imagined a time in which she could return to Earth, and seek answers from the woman who had looked at her without fear.

Hippolyta’s hand reaches out and pushes open the door almost as if on its own accord, and, as she instructed, the curtains on the bed are drawn, and Martha Kent is lying trembling beneath silken sheets, veiled from her sight. Hippolyta can hear her give a small gasp at her entrance, but she bites back any further reaction, obviously adhering Amazons’ orders to lie in silence and await her lover.

Hippolyta approaches the fire, where three deep pitchers have been set out, side by side. She opens one, setting aside the lid, and stares into its gleaming depths.

_May the gods’ hands be upon you tonight, little one._

The Queen reaches up and ties back her wild hair, pinning it off her neck and shoulders. A few loose strands escape her grasp, but she sweeps them up until every hair is in its place. There will be no time tonight for distraction or irritations, not even from her own body.

Finally, she shrugs off the thin nightgown, ignoring the soft whine of desire that greets the revealing of her bare skin. The silky material whispers down to the floor, where it will remain until long after this night is over. The sound of a racing heartbeat meets Hippolyta’s ears, but she says nothing as she slips her hand into the second jug of oil and begins to coat her own skin with its silky sheen. Her hands linger as they run over her shoulders, and she resists the urge to turn around and look towards the shadowed bed as her hands caress her own breasts, her body already singing with anticipation and arousal.

_The gods have given us many gifts. One day you’ll know them all._

Once, she had prepared herself in this way every year, for the Feast of Aphrodite. Once, she had taken each of her subjects, and taught them the secrets of the gods, so that they would learn to love as passionately as they were made to do. But ever since she ventured into man’s world, and met the figure that trembles behind her now upon a feather mattress, she had excused herself from the ritual, allowing others to impart the wisdom of the gods, the pleasures of the flesh.

Hippolyta lifts her hands away from her own body, closes her eyes, then gathers up the third, untouched vessel, this one a smaller bowl of oil, and dips three long fingers into its shallow depths.

_Athena give me wisdom, Hera give me devotion, Aphrodite give me passion..._

She can hear the woman breathing heavily as she lies upon the bed behind her, trying her very best to make no sound.

“My lady, be you ready?” she asks without turning around. There is no answer, and Hippolyta lifts her gleaming fingers from the shimmering liquid and turns slowly to look at her. And a smile spreads over her face as she catches a glimpse of the shadowed, hungry expression that cannot be veiled even by the thin curtains shielding the wide bed from the rest of the room.

 _“Come here,”_ a strained voice says at last, small and shaking with lust. Hippolyta obeys, and those eyes widen as she approaches, the bowl of oil clasped in her hands, her body naked and fearless and free.

“Oh, Hippolyta,” Martha Kent murmurs as the Queen sets down the bowl beside the bed and pulls aside the curtain separating them. “The gods were generous when they made you.”

Hippolyta lowers herself onto the bed beside her and gently pulls back the thin covers, revealing the woman’s naked body, oiled and gleaming as her own.

_Oh, Hera, help me…_

But Martha shivers under her gaze, and she smiles.

“The gods?” Hippolyta whispers, leaning forward and tucking a strand of hair behind the Martha's ear, and pressing a light kiss along its trail. _“I am the gods.”_

And Martha laughs and wraps her arms around her neck, pulling her down, and kissing her softly, sweetly. Hippolyta doesn’t let up until she’s breathless, and when Martha finally slides her hands down to her shoulders and pushes her away, she is panting, plaintive and needy, like the human she is. Hippolyta props herself up on one elbow and brushes the already damp strands of hair away from Martha’s face.

“You are very beautiful, my love.”

But Martha shakes her head, reaching up and laying a hand over her lover’s wrist.

“Hippolyta, listen… I- I want this, everything, but I don’t know how much I can…” she begins awkwardly, her hands running over the goddess' bulging biceps. But Hippolyta only smiles a wicked smile, then lifts herself off of her and reaches for the large jug of wine that is sitting upon the table beside the bowl of oil.

“I had this made for you in Man’s World.”

Hippolyta draws the dripping dipper out from the pitcher’s hollow depths and turns to the woman watching apprehensively from the bed.

Drink this, my love,” she says softly, holding up the edge up to Martha’s lips. “Tonight, we shall celebrate one another without fear.”

Martha takes a long drink, then Hippolyta tosses the dipper aside. It clatters along the stone floor before coming to a rest against the wall. Then Hippolyta straddles her, tossing the bedding aside. And for a second, Martha lies back, stunned, as the wine of Dionysus speeds through her living veins. Hippolyta waits patiently, her fingertips just barely dancing with Martha’s against the sheets, then she blinks rapidly and says in a small voice,

“That’s wonderful.”

And Hippolyta’s lip curls, her eyes are sparkling as she leans down and presses the lightest of kisses against that trembling chin.

“I know.”

And before Martha can answer, Hippolyta takes both her human hands and lays them upon her own breasts. Martha shivers, and her tongue flicks out to wet her lips as her eyes stare down at the beautiful sight beneath her hands. Her small palms barely cover the areolas.

_“Hippolyta…”_

The Queen reaches down and rakes an impatient hand through her timid lover’s silvery hair, and she smiles at the sight of the sheer arousal nearly turning those green eyes black with lust.

_“Worship me.”_

And Martha takes a deep, shuddering breath, and her hands begin to move, tentative at first, her fingertips barely grazing her skin, but her touch grows more confident as the wine runs its course, as Hippolyta moves against her, in tandem with her, encouraging her, her eyes gleaming with amusement as those small hands begin caressing and exploring her heavy breasts.

_So beautiful..._

Hippolyta throws back her head as Martha sits up, her eyes half-closed with lust, and slowly licks her way up the valley between her breasts. It is the first time Hippolyta has felt her tongue upon her skin, and the sensation burns like fire, like ice, like sharp needles of desire… she allows herself to let out a soft moan as the woman’s thumbs finally circle her hard, wanting peaks, as her mouth slides over them to tease and suck at her like a child. She moans as desire begins to trickle through her veins, and she reaches up with shaking hands to grip at hair that shines like moonlight...

 _“Harder,”_ she orders hoarsely, and Martha obeys. Her touch is fierce now, like a true Amazon, as she bites and tugs at her nipples until Hippolyta gives a sharp cry of desire or pain, and then she relents and soothes the sting with her lips and hands before attacking her again with renewed vigor.

Perhaps Martha Kent has never bedded a woman before, but Hippolyta has seen her hungry stares in her wake, seen her blushing cheeks as she strolls across rooms in her nightclothes, and the woman’s delight is evident as she buries her head between her bosoms and sighs happily.

 _“Oh, Hippolyta,”_ she whispers, raising her head to stare at her with worshipful eyes before bowing down once more to circle a taut nipple with her tongue, making Hippolyta groan and shift uncomfortably as tension spreads through her body in waves. Her cunt is already beginning to ache.

At last, she lets out a ragged breath, reminiscent of some long-forgotten time when hot blood still coursed through her veins, and then she gathers her lover up in her arms, pulling her out from beneath her, and pinning her down onto the pile of soft furs and plump pillows.

“You are quite skilled at that, little one,” she says, bending and nipping at Martha's earlobe, making her gasp. “I am well pleased.”

“As am I, my darling,” she replies almost lazily, but her hands never still from caressing those generous breasts. “I must say, if _I_ looked like this, I would never wear clothes.”

“The Amazons tried that once, at the beginning of time,” Hippolyta says, lightly trailing her fingers up and down Martha’s arms. “Production decreased, injuries increased, lovers constantly tripping over their own feet…”

“My love, are you telling me about your Queendom’s _quota_ from thousands of years ago? _Now?!”_ Martha scolds, but she is teasing, and she gives her breasts a hard squeeze to accentuate that point, making Hippolyta gasp and completely forget whatever her reply was going to be.

_“Oh, Hera…”_

Martha smirks at her, and Hippolyta shakes her head, surrendering.

 _“Again,”_ she orders, and she complies again and again until Hippolyta gives a long, low cry, and bats her hands away. They are replaced again a moment later, and Hippolyta gives an exasperated smile at the flushed face beneath her.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Hippolyta says pointedly, and Martha grins.

 _“Oh,_ yes,” she replies, her own eyes glazed with desire. “I love seeing you like this.”

Hippolyta raises an eyebrow, but her eyes never leave hers as she seizes the hands away from her now-tender breasts, holding both wrists together in one palm. And then she lets her other hand wander down the woman’s side, brushing lightly over her hip, down her bent legs.

“Like how?” Hippolyta asks softly, her fingertips dancing so lightly over her ankle and toes, then the back of her hand moves up again, this time along the inside of Martha’s leg.

“Like… like this,” she begins to reply, but her thought is overtaken as the feather-light touch begins to trace circles around the inside of her thigh, making her voice hitch. _“Hippolyta.”_

“My lady.”

“I… I am not a lady.”

Hippolyta tilts her head as she stares down at her. The hand moves closer, her fingertips grazing the soft, sensitive down covering her womanhood, and Martha begins to shiver, her shaking growing more violent with each passing second.

“Not a lady? What are you, then, a man?” Hippolyta challenges, shifting slightly to reach beneath one of the many pillows piled onto their bed.

“No,” Martha gasps, her hips jerking, reacting, despite her obvious efforts to quell her own arousal. “I’m a _woman.”_

Hippolyta lets out a soft laugh, and the side of her forefinger just barely brushes over the woman’s slick opening, and Martha groans as if the goddess had bent and sucked directly on her clit.

_“Yes, you are.”_

And Hippolyta removes her hand altogether and sits up, her breasts swinging, and she releases Martha’s wrists.

“What…” But Martha’s voice trails off as she catches a glimpse of what is lying across Hippolyta’s palms, and she lets out a low whine and curls up on herself as a new thrill of arousal races through her body. But Hippolyta pushes her down onto her back, roughness creeping into her touch for the first time that night.

“Hippolyta, _please…”_

“Hands over your head, woman.”

And Martha Kent trembles as her Queen uncoils the length of rope and smiles an arrogant, knowing smile down at her, waiting for her to obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But wait, there's ~~A LOT~~ more!!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this. I'm still confused about the lack of Hippolyta smut on this website, so guess who's decided to help fill in the gaps. Thanks for reading!!
> 
> (And again, edits/replies after Christmas. I'm barely getting these chapters out before falling asleep as is! :P)


	10. The Freedom of Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited smut, part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to miss_belivet for betareading! :)

Martha Kent is tied securely in place, her arms stretched up over her head, the knots unrelenting, no matter how hard she tugs and struggles against them.

She is also naked, her skin covered in oil, and laid out for the world to see.

There is a powerful figure crouching beside her, staring shamelessly at her helpless figure, eyes gleaming with wanton desire, and strong, hungry hands moving lustfully over her body.

No one is coming to save her, to rescue her from her ultimate end. She is here, and here she will remain, until it is over.

And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

“Hippolyta, _please.”_

The Queen does not appear moved by her begging.

“You humans, always so impatient, so excited,” she says, her voice casual, demure, as if they were lunching on a patio instead of in bed together, sweaty and panting, counting the minutes and seconds until the descent into pleasure. Martha tugs impatiently against the ropes once more, but they are as unrelenting as they have been for the past hour. Or ten hours. Or ten weeks. Or however long it has been since this Queen amongst goddesses had seized her wrists and her dignity, and held them both in the palm of her hand.

“You immortals, always determined to take things _slow,”_ Martha groans as Hippolyta teases her opening once more, her fingers slick with fresh oil, and her eyes bright with unquenched amusement.

“I did not say I would take it slow, I said I would _take my time.”_

 _“Hippolyta,”_ she moans as two fingers casually lift up the hood of her clit, and a calloused thumb begins, once more, to rub small circles against the exposed bundle of nerves.

 _“Please,”_ she begs, willing the fingers to stay, willing them to circle again, and again, and again, harder and harder and harder, until she plummets off of this plateau of endless frustration. “Please, please, _please,_ oh- no, _no!”_

The fingers drift away, and Martha lunges forward, only to be stopped by the ropes lashed around her wrists.

“You _fiend,”_ she rages as Hippolyta grins down at her. “You- you absolute _tease.”_

Hippolyta dips her head down and presses a kiss on the soft skin below her navel, so, so close to the burning heat, but not nearly close enough…

“Must you torment me so, Hippolyta?” Martha groans, her arms going slack once more as the ropes refuse to yield.

“Oh, yes,” the Queen responds happily. “It gives me great joy.”

Martha kicks out, but the goddess does not even react as sharp heels bounce off of her shoulders.

“That did not work the first five times, do you think it would now?” Hippolyta chides, seizing her thrashing limbs, and settling them down onto the sheets once more.

“My _god.”_

“I am not your god,” Hippolyta replies nonchalantly, crawling forward and kissing the frustrated woman’s sweat-covered forehead. “I am your _Queen.”_

“Hippolyta...” Martha whispers, her eyes begging as Hippolyta runs her hands up and down her outstretched arms. “Hippolyta, my love, _please…”_

The Queen brushes her nose up against Martha’s slack jaw, against her damp neck, against her trembling arms, and then she sighs.

“Very well. But _you_ must do something for me.”

_“Anything.”_

“Count.”

Martha stares up at her.

“...what?”

“Count for me. You may choose the language.”

The fingers begin to stroke lightly against her once more, and she squirms.

“Well?” Hippolyta breathes, raking a hand through her sweat-soaked hair.

“Fine. _One,”_ Martha says, her breath hitching as Hippolyta pulses a fingertip at her entrance.

“Excellent. And then?”

“Two.”

The hand that is not busy fucking her is trailing over her collarbone, grasping at her shoulder, moving down to lay lightly upon her breast.

“...three.”

The finger has pressed in, carefully moving in and out. Martha groans at the sensation.

“And?”

_“Four.”_

“Indeed.”

Her fingers are moving rapidly now, another joining the first, as skilled as if they were her own, and Martha pulls against the ropes binding her once more, but this time, not to pull herself free, but to quell the strain threatening to burst from her.

 _“Breathe,_ my darling,” Hippolyta warns as the woman holds her breath. “And _count.”_

 _“Five-six-seven-eight,”_ she gasps, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but Hippolyta frowns and plunges her fingers deeper into her.

 _“Steady._ Again, from five,” she says sternly, and Martha whines.

 _“Five-_ Hippolyta, I _can’t-”_

“You will. Go on,” she says, her voice as firm and unrelenting as her strokes.

_“Six.”_

Her hands are gripping desperately at the ropes, at the few inches of pillow she can grasp, and Hippolyta slows, keeping her teetering on the edge.

“No! You _promised-”_ Martha wails, sensing the goddess’ change of pace, her hips thrusting wildly towards her as best she can.

 _“Count,”_ Hippolyta repeats, unaffected. But she is grinning widely, because she knows how long she can keep this poor woman here, her pleasure so very close, just within reach, and that amount of time is much longer than this tormented creature thinks is even possible...

_“Seven… eight… nine…”_

“Good girl… my good, sweet girl,” Hippolyta murmurs, her free hand caressing the top of Martha’s head, and she almost comes right there and then.

 _“Ten.”_ The sound is less a word, and more a sob.

“Hold out for me, my darling. Hold, hold, _hold…”_

_“Eleven… tw- twelve.”_

The numbers are harder now, and Martha’s voice is barely a whisper.

_“Hippolyta, please…”_

“Two more, little one, and I will let you come.”

_“Thi… thir…”_

Hippolyta’s thumb swipes over her clit, and she pulls away as it stiffens slightly.

 _“Thirteen!”_ The word bursts forth, and the woman’s eyes bulge as she stares unseeing at Hippolyta’s face.

“Look at me.”

Hippolyta tips the damp head down, and the green eyes struggle to focus as her jaw goes slack.

“One more… just one more.”

_“Four- four… t- teen…”_

Hippolyta grins, and for a split second, Martha thinks it was a trick, that she was lying to her this whole time, and that she is going to leave her here, dangling in mid-air until the end of time...

_“Let go.”_

And she clenches hard around her fingers, and comes with a sob, her back arching off the soaked sheets, and Hippolyta does not let up until she comes again, and again. She can hear herself gasping and keening, with this mad creature’s name occasionally slipping from her tongue along with an array of colorful swear words that she’s certainly never said before in her life, and somewhere in the back of her head, she thinks that she would be embarrassed if the Queen was not whispering to her, praising her, worshipping her as she fell.

The third orgasm is the strongest, and it is several moments before it dwindles down, and her body slows its wild thrashing, and the screams die down to occasional, involuntary moans. The Queen pushes the hair away from her face, massages her shaking limbs with her free hand. Her other hand is still buried deep inside of her.

_“Hippolyta.”_

The Queen finally slides her long fingers from her, and holds them up, slick with oil and cum. She grins and Martha stares in shock as a long tongue flicks out and licks those fingers clean.

 _“God,_ Hippolyta…”

But the Queen only flashes her a satisfied smile and murmurs,

_“Delicious.”_

Martha shakes her head, but waits a few more seconds for her thudding heart to slow, then she says in a soft voice,

“That was wonderful, Hippolyta, truly, I… I have never felt-”

“We are not finished yet.”

For a moment she thinks she imagined it, misheard it in the lightheaded bliss of the moment. But Hippolyta glances at her, and her eyes are gleaming, and Martha feels it go directly through her like a sword, stabbing her right between her legs.

“I… what?”

 _“Fourteen,_ was it not?” the Queen says casually, leaning down and nipping at her inner thighs. Her cheek comes away wet and shining. “By my count, we still have eleven more.”

“You… you can’t be…” Martha Kent stammers, but Hippolyta bends down once more, and she murmurs,

“I only stopped to let you catch your breath. As you living humans are wont to do.”

And Martha opens her mouth, but Hippolyta thrusts her tongue into her, and it is _nothing_ like her fingers, nothing like _anything_ she has felt before… and all that comes out is a scream.

* * *

Four, five, and six are a testament to the skill of Queen Hippolyta’s mouth and fingers.

And her skill is unparalleled.

After six, she slows, and Martha discovers just what she was asking for when she ordered her lover to treat her “like an Amazon”, nothing held back.

Seven is rough. So much pain… so much pleasure. She begs for the end, she begs for more, she begs for punishment, she begs for mercy. Afterward, Hippolyta rubs every inch of her with some liquid that feels ice-cold on her skin, but it numbs the pain so thoroughly, she doesn’t even remember its harshness when Hippolyta loosens the ropes from her wrists and opts to hold her captive with her own limbs- and ungodly speed, her hands everywhere at once, as if there are ten, twenty Hippolytas seizing at her, pinning her down, making her scream.

Nine is loving, all gentle caresses and long kisses. Her arms are drawn behind her back and held there with a pattern of intricate knots, and as each loops slides over her skin, it is followed by cold lips, cold fingers, soothing whispers.

_So beautiful, little one._

In another moment, she is suspended in midair, floating, the ropes binding her so perfectly balanced, it is as if she were weightless, flying. Hippolyta smiles softly up at her, circling her figure, checking her work, grazing her exposed skin with her fingertips.

“Comfortable?”

“Very.” She wants to say more, but there’s a stillness in the moment, something solemn, something void of the roughness and frenzy of earlier, and when Hippolyta approaches her and presses an upside-down kiss against her lips, it feels simple, innocent. Her face is shadowed when she pulls away. Those eyes rove Martha’s upside-down face, and then she gives a vacant smile, darkened by some distant memory.

“The Amazons spent a hundred years in bondage... when we defeated our captors, we reclaimed the joy and freedom of surrender, and we transformed it into something beautiful.”

She reaches up and takes Martha’s head in her hands, leans forward, and gently rests their foreheads together. And Martha closes her eyes, soaking in the feeling of the Queen’s fingers as they stroke her hair.

“I will never let anyone bind you in chains, Martha Kent.”

And Martha can do nothing but remain where she is, breathing shallow breaths, suspended in midair, naked and helpless, completely safe, completely home.

_“Hippolyta…”_

The warrior moves almost abruptly, her alert eyes flashing across Martha’s face, searching for any sign of pain or discomfort. Martha grimaces and makes a face that she hopes is reassuring.

“No, it’s not- kiss me, darling. Just… kiss me.”

The Queen’s eyes flood with relief, she complies. And she doesn’t want her to, but the Queen steps away and their lips part. Her eyes are dark, assessing, and then says quietly,

“Would you like to see yourself?”

And Martha stares at her, at her Queen, and her watching eyes, and her solemn face, and her glorious figure, and her hands- those hands that brought down nations, that fought for her people’s freedom, that soothed her soul and brought her pleasure and peace- and she nods. Hippolyta snaps a finger, and the stone floor beneath them shimmers and wipes away to reveal the likeness of Martha Kent, her body bare and vulnerable and shimmering with an intricate pattern of ropes. Her forearms are tied securely behind her back, knees bent and parted, and her ankles are lashed together and lifted up over the rest of her body. Hippolyta stands off to the side, a quizzical expression on her face, and it’s with a trace of worry in her voice that she says after a moment of silence,

“I will let you down.”

“No.”

Martha stares at her reflection for another moment, then she says firmly,

“Do it.”

The Queen does not need to be told twice. She strolls forward, and this time, Martha can feel every movement, every quake and every quiver as she comes.

* * *

Ten is different.

The ropes are gone, and Hippolyta lays her gently down onto the bed once more, and caresses away any lingering sensation from her bondage. But at last, Martha slips her arms around the woman’s neck and says,

“Aren’t there still five more? Don’t go soft on me, now.”

And the Queen of the Amazons grins, rolls off of the bed, and opens the drawer beneath the oil and wine. Martha watches with wide eyes as she removes a set of wooden phalluses.

_Oh, gods, Hippolyta..._

“Don’t tell me, you had those made in Man’s World,” Martha says, her voice trembling despite her brave effort to keep it steady. Hippolyta only glances in her direction, and raises an eyebrow as she dips her fingers into the bowl of oil and spreads it generously up and down the wood.

“No.”

And then she’s walking toward her, pulling aside the curtain once more, and a few loose strands of hair have fallen forward to frame her face, and Martha thinks to herself that, of all their time together tonight, the Queen has never had such a look of true, feral joy on her face…

“I made these myself, after I met you.”

Martha lets out an embarrassing squeak, but Hippolyta’s eyes soften before she seizes her kicking ankles and drags her over to the edge of the bed.

“ _You know the word if you wish for me to stop,”_ she whispers before flipping Martha over onto her stomach and smoothing her hands over the buttocks that just two orgasms earlier had been spanked red and raw.

“ _Don’t you dare st-”_ but her voice breaks off, choked by a plaintive whimper. Hippolyta is circling her with the oiled tip, pulsing, teasing, just like she had at the beginning, but this time she’s pushing into her from behind, gentle and easy at first. Martha grips at the bunched up bedspread, seizes at the pillows, but the moans that the wooden cock elicit from her are so wanton, soon Hippolyta is thrusting into her, fucking her harder and better than she’s ever been fucked, and never before in her life did it ever feel like this…

She comes with a guttural cry, one on top of the other, and Hippolyta is there to catch her when she falls.

_Tell me what you want._

Martha didn’t know that _lady’s choice_ was on the menu tonight.

“Do it again. _God,_ do that again, but this time-”

Twelve and thirteen are spent bent over the window where she first caught a glimpse of her lover battling five Amazons at once. One hand is grasping at her breasts. One hand stroking her clit, fingers curling around her g-spot, pumping fast and hard. One cock filling her from behind.

_Hippolyta..._

She cries loud over the dark roofs, and the stone windowsill crumbles beneath her hands. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers those warriors, their attacks, their determination to defeat their queen, and she imagines them besting her this time, tearing the armor from her body, bringing her down in surrender, Hippolyta still fighting them off even as she groans in pleasure.

The image burns into her mind, and all at once she is turning on her, grasping at those strong hands, seizing at those wrists, pushing her down onto the unforgiving concrete, and the Queen’s eyes are wide as Martha seizes her hair and forces herself down over her head, forcing herself between her parted lips.

“Take me, my Queen, take me, _take me.”_

The Goddess of Death obeys, and Martha Kent rides her tongue, that skilled, impossibly responsive tongue until she comes with a high gasp. She collapses onto the stone ground, half-conscious, fatigue flooding her body at last. She doesn’t know how long she lies there, but at some point, she is aware of Hippolyta lifting her up and carrying her to the baths. And she feels the warm water and gentle hands cleaning every hint of oil and arousal from her skin, and she closes her eyes as soap trickles down the side of her face. She can hear her own voice mumbling something about repayment, Hippolyta dismisses it and carefully dries her before carrying her to bed.

And Martha clings to her, burrowing against her cold body, and falls asleep in seconds. When she wakes late the next afternoon, the sun is beginning to dip over the roofs, and Hippolyta is still there beside her, holding her close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going back to my cage now...
> 
> But thanks for reading!! This was SO MUCH FUN to write, and I hope you enjoyed it as well! We're now at the midpoint of the story, and we'll lounge in some post-orgasmatic bliss for a bit before things start heating up again (if you know the Hades/Persephone story, you know there's another reunion/some mega drama on the horizon!)
> 
> Have a wonderful holiday season, and see you in the new year!!! :D


	11. More than Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens the day after.

“The world rejoices, My Queen.”

 _“Peace,_ Antiope.”

“I am truly happy for you, sister.”

Hippolyta shoots the general a dubious look as she wipes her sword clean of its afternoon on the training field, but not even her deepest skepticism can mask her lingering smile.

“Am I to gather from the cries of ecstasy heard from your bedchambers early this morning that the lady did not reject you?”

“Pray do not mention that to her.”

“Even a _living_ _human_ must understand that if you shout from an open window, the highest window in the palace, no less, the entire city is bound to hear-”

_“Antiope!”_

And the general laughs aloud, but she steps forward and lays a strong hand on her sister’s arm.

“Oh, Hippolyta... have the Amazons ever seen so beautiful a sight as their Queen at peace? Too long we have waited- all of us- for this moment. Allow us to share in your joy, sister.”

Hippolyta pauses and glances towards the archway that leads out of her rooms, where, just outside, a living figure with a beating heart waits, pacing slowly up and down the marble halls.

“Thank you. For your preparations last night.” Hippolyta’s voice is abrupt, but her touch is gentle as she reaches out and brushes the lingering snow and dirt from her sister’s hair. “She said she felt more comfortable with you than she had anticipated.”

“Do not fear, My Queen,” Antiope teases, but her eyes are soft. “I won’t steal her from you.”

Hippolyta sighs and snatches her helmet from Antiope’s hands- the general had casually been glancing at her own reflection in the polished steel- and for a moment, Antiope thinks she is going to walk away without another word, but the Queen lays a heavy hand on her sister’s arm, and her brilliant eyes are intense as she leans forward. On any other day, Antiope’s rankling might have gone unnoticed, but there is a reason why Hippolyta is Queen, and it is not only because of her prowess on the battlefield, or her cunning in the art of warfare, or her ability to command the respect of her subjects… _No,_ Antiope thinks as Hippolyta leans in and brushes her forehead with a kiss. _She is Queen because she has the wisdom and compassion to see behind the masks that people wear to shield themselves, to see those who are unable to reveal their true thoughts and feelings, to see those who are in pain, despite all appearances_.

And today... despite her true joy at Hippolyta’s happiness, she has been painfully reminded of the sudden ending to her own story, a story that not even Death herself can mend.

“Your day will come, Antiope... even now, she waits in rule, and every day she looks into a future where death no longer haunts her steps.”

And Antiope looks away.

_Even if she were willing to join me in New Themyscira, she would never shrink from her duty as an Amazon, as the last living sister of the monarchy, as the Seer, the Priestess of our people... and even now, in a land where time has no meaning, change has come, and Hippolyta no longer spends her nights beside me at the watch, hunting in the wild, talking long over the burning embers of the campfire, but she has moved on, as must we all..._

“Do not let a lonely wife’s impatience cloud your day, Hippolyta,” Antiope says abruptly, and she claps her sister’s shoulder, her chin raised, her smile brave, but shaky. “Each hour that passes only multiplies tenfold the celebration that will occur when I am reunited once more with my Menalippe. And on that day, we shall give you and your living lover a masterclass in the art of waking an entire city with the throes of passion-”

“Antiope…”

“No, I do believe there were some in the far reaches of Asphodel who did not hear you. You must practice.”

“Sister, if you utter a _single_ word more of this, I shall send such a flurry of snow to your training fields that you shall not have the room to _move,_ much less raise a sword.”

And Antiope laughs and shoos her sister out of her rooms. But she turns and watches as Hippolyta sweeps out into the hall and takes her waiting lover’s hand, those strong fingers gentle as they entwine with frail, living skin and bone. Martha Kent glances back and gives Antiope a smile and a small wave, and the general nods slightly. And then they are gone, walking together hand-in-hand to take the evening meal in the bustling courtyard, leaving Antiope alone in these quiet, empty rooms.

* * *

The Amazons are less teasing today and more solemnly joyful, as if yesterday night was the bachelorette party, and today is the wedding.

Or perhaps it is simply because tonight, Hippolyta is at her side, and when her sisters approach, their smiles are wide, but their sparkling eyes are downcast with respect as they congratulate their Queen and _The Lady._ Still, laughter and stories ring across the square, and Hippolyta often leans in to press her soft lips against Martha’s cheek. And she blushes, giddy from the attention- and from the wine that Hippolyta pours into her glass with a knowing smile, a promise of what is later to come...

But tonight, Hippolyta’s touch is gentle, simple, her hands and fingertips loving as they brush over Martha’s skin. She does not tease her, push her towards the brink; she only touches her, kisses her, adores her. And then she settles down, lounging on her back, and Martha sits up. And her hands splay over hard muscle, strong bones, fine hair, scarred skin.

“I’m sorry, I- you must have thought I had a one-track mind, last night,” Martha murmurs as she runs her palm up and down her lover’s long legs, admiring the gleaming muscles.

“I thought no such thing.”

Martha smiles wryly at her Hippolyta’s contented voice, and she whispers a kiss over the soles of her feet before crawling back up to look her in the face.

“Really? What did you think, then?” she says, shyly brushing the golden strands away from those shoulders and pressing them into the pillows as she straddles her, her knees on either side of her ribcage. Hippolyta smiles lazily up at her and cups her saggy, old lady breasts with strong hands.

 _I’m sorry,_ she wants to say again, but Hippolyta thumbs her nipples and she finds herself biting back a moan instead.

“I thought you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.”

“Oh, Hippolyta… are you sure you weren’t looking in a mirror?” Martha murmurs, but she’s blushing hard, and Hippolyta’s fingers haven’t stopped their gentle movement, back and forth, back and forth...

“You are beautiful, Martha Kent,” she replies, a slight line of confusion visible over her forehead. “You are very beautiful. Has Man’s World told you otherwise?”

“Well, not me _directly,”_ Martha says, looking down, watching as those skilled fingers tease little moans and squirms out of her. “I… I mean, it’s just understood that at a certain age, women lose their… appeal- not that appeal is a great or important thing to have, of course-”

“What age?”

“Hmm?”

“What age is this, that Man’s World teaches women that they are no longer beautiful?”

“Oh, I don’t know- _Hippolyta-”_ she gasps as a strain of arousal races down through her. “I think… twenty-nine or so.”

_“What?!”_

“If you’re going to rage against men, maybe save it for when we’re not in bed together-”

“I will _show_ you how beautiful you are, little one,” Hippolyta declares, rising up against her like a wave, almost sending her tumbling down to the floor.

“Gently, _gently,_ my darling,” Martha scolds, taking Hippolyta’s hands, and pressing them down once more into the pillows. “You have already- you have shown me a world that I never thought possible, a world where a woman like me can live, fully, freely… you have shown me in no small words or deeds that I am a woman worth loving, now _calm_ yourself, or you’re going to snap me in two.”

“I attempted to do so last night…” Hippolyta says haughtily, her chin raised with that arrogant tilt that Martha loves so much. But her eyes are sparkling, and Martha lets out a laugh of protest as the goddess’ long fingers tickle her sides. “...it did not work.”

“No?” Martha challenges, grasping at Hippolyta’s wrists again and holding them far away from her. “Maybe you need to try harder.”

“Is that an order, my darling?”

“Yes. Yes, it is,” Martha replies, barely smothering a giggle as she tries to put on a serious, Queenly face. “Now obey me at once, or you shall be punished.”

“Both so _tempting,”_ Hippolyta muses, her fingers playing with Martha’s, both their arms spread wide, both trying- and failing- to suppress broad smiles. But the seconds trickle by, and Hippolyta waits patiently as Martha’s gaze turns pensive, the glimmer of teasing fading to a peaceful, thoughtful expression.

“Do you love me, Hippolyta?”

The question sounds so small in this quiet room, but Hippolyta brushes her fingers over her arm and says almost at once,

“I do, little one.”

“Do you? Do you love me more than- than this palace? Its halls, its kitchen, its garden on the roof?”

“I love you more than this palace, darling,” Hippolyta smiles, reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind her lover’s ear. The warm light from the fire is flickering across her face.

“Do you love me more than the Fields of Asphodel? With those lights that glimmer in the summer, and those pretty lanterns they hang from the trees in winter?”

“I love you more than the Fields of Asphodel,” Hippolyta replies gamely. But she bites back a grin as Martha glances away from her face, her eyes narrowed as she stares toward the curtained window. Hippolyta says nothing as Martha seemingly searches the landscape, the _world_ in her mind before she turns her bright green eyes back to her once more.

“Do you love me more than the temples? The sacred halls, the places of peace and meditation and remembrance- do you love me more than those?”

“I love you more than the temples of the gods, little one,” Hippolyta murmurs, her thumbs tracing small circles over Martha’s hip bones, and Martha’s fingers brush almost absently over her long, pale neck.

“Do… do you love me more than Tartarus? Where the sinners are punished and brought to justice?”

“I love you _far_ more than I love Tartarus,” Hippolyta says, a soft smile touching her lips at last, but even she hears the real question underneath those shakey words…

_Even now, I mourn..._

“Do you love me more than Elysium? Where the people worship you, where they live in peace and harmony, where- where…”

Martha’s voice trails off, and her wandering fingers still.

_Do you love me, even though I loved another before you?_

And Hippolyta’s gaze does not waver as she replies,

“I love you more than Elysium, Martha Kent. You know I do.”

Martha stares down at her, her breath stilted, and her heart beginning to quicken. Hippolyta waits in silence as she struggles to speak, and at last she whispers,

“Do you love me more than New Themyscira, My Queen? Do you love me more than this crown, your rule, your power?”

And the Goddess of Death rises at last, plucking Martha’s body off of her, and settling her down onto the bed, pulling the heavy blankets up over her against the chill of the winter night.

“Oh, my darling…” and Hippolyta presses a cold kiss against Martha’s pounding heart. “I love you more than a _thousand_ Themysciras.”

And Martha sighs and snuggles deeper under the covers, closing her eyes, satisfied at last.

“And you, my little moon, my light in darkness?”

“Hmm?”

“What do you love _me_ more than?” the Queen says, her voice teasing, but there is a soft vulnerability lingering underneath her smile.

Martha opens one eye, almost as if to give her magnificent lover a once-over, then she closes her eyes once more and buries her cheek into the soft, feather pillow.

“Oh, Hippolyta…”

_My dear, my darling, my Queen, my blazing sun that gives my dark world warmth and light and meaning..._

“I love you more than life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry about me I'm just over here squeeing about two fictional characters in a scene that I literally wrote...
> 
> ~~God they're just so cute though!~~
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading (and waiting, yikes)!! There will be a little turbulence in the chapters to come, but I've been outlining more in depth what will happen in the second (third?) act of this fic, and I can't wait!!


	12. Segue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another lakeside chat.

Martha likes the kitchen.

Most of her food at New Themyscira is made for her, of course, either at the communal meals with the other Amazons, or the breakfasts Hippolyta brings her in the morning, or the various meals they eat together on their balcony throughout their week. But today feels different, so she waves away Myrrha’s waiting figure and sets to work, humming softly to herself as she digs various “food from Man’s World” from the cold room in the back.

It’s still before dawn, and the Underworld is covered in that smoky gray light… and it's times like this that she’s reminded so poignantly of Kansas- bacon and hash browns in the frying pan, the radio on in the corner, Jonathan sipping coffee and reading the morning paper, darting glances at the clock as he debates whether to wake Clark before heading out to the fields.

But that was years ago, even on Earth. Clark hasn’t been a boy for two, three decades, and Jonathan is probably on the other side of Elysium, doing exactly that: drinking coffee and laughing together with this grandfather and Lewis Lang before they head out to their respective farms.

_Maybe you might want to visit. They’d be happy to see you._

Martha adds a pinch of salt and pepper to the bowl and stirs absently. She’s spent so much time trying to acclimate to New Themyscira, and with Jonathan appearing so suddenly on that one spring morning, it was as if her mind had been trying to pull itself away from the grasp of her old life in its rush to embrace this new, beautiful world she’d found herself immersed in; it had seemed almost disloyal to even think of Kansas or Earth. But Hippolyta has never discouraged her from being anything she wanted to be, after all, it had been Martha Kent, Clark Kent’s mother, that mousy old woman from the Batcave who she’d come back for, in that dry desert, on her porch that night.

A blinding ray of golden sunlight emerges from the peaks of Tartarus on the horizon, light flowing through the Western windows to glow softly across the marble counters, and Martha looks up to see Hippolyta standing beneath the archway, her towering figure completely, gloriously nude. Martha startles and just barely catches herself from dropping the empty mixing bowl she’d been carrying to the sink. Apparently the Queen hadn’t bothered to find the night gown that Martha had tossed across their bedroom last night…

“You look beautiful this morning.”

Martha scoffs at the irony of it, but the Goddess of Death strolls across the kitchen towards her and gathers her into her cold arms.

“That was going to be _my_ line,” Martha pretends to grumble, but she wraps her arms around that graceful waist, skin against skin, and buries her head between her lover’s bosoms.

“You can still say it, my darling,” Hippolyta says amicably, her voice rumbling against the side of Martha’s head, and she grins.

“You are so beautiful, Hippolyta…” Martha mumbles obediently against a soft breast, and she bites back a moan, then shakes herself. “Now- now go put on some clothes before I eat _you_ instead of this nice food I prepared.”

Hippolyta ruffles her hair and kisses her, then glances over at the neatly wrapped meal.

“Are you going to the lake?”

“Yes… would you like to join me? It’s a beautiful day.”

Martha waits with bated breath as Hippolyta turns to look out the windows at the rising sun.

“...please?” she adds, her hands buried deep in her pockets in an attempt to look nonchalant. But her efforts are clearly too much, judging the way Hippolyta looks back at her, an amused expression on her face.

“You know I cannot resist when you beg me,” she says in a low, mournful voice, but her eyes are gleaming with mischief, and Martha pushes her away.

 _“Clothes,_ woman. You know _I_ cannot resist when you’re...” Martha’s voice trails off as she waves an absent hand at her lover’s naked body, and the Queen laughs aloud at her disgruntled expression.

_“As my lady commands.”_

* * *

Today, they bypass the villages and cities of Elysium, choosing to fly directly to the mountains, and then let the horses trot past the fields and forests. Hippolyta observes the passing landscape with alert, watching eyes until Martha takes her hand, giving her a look as if to say,

_No working today._

They arrive at the shimmering edge of the water, and the horses set the chariot down with breathtaking gentleness. Martha begins to unpack, but the Queen waves her away, and she is left to run like a child to the water, the horses snorting and dancing around her. For a long moment, she watches as they gallop up and down the sand, so graceful and strong, like on that first night, when Hippolyta had gathered her up into her arms and carried her down the crumbling walkway…

“How long has it been? Since… since you appeared on my doorstep?”

Hippolyta stretches out like a cat on the thick woven blanket as Martha approaches.

“Three years,” she answers without opening her eyes.

“No,” Martha replies, glancing out over the waves before opening the basket and pulling out the sandwiches she’d packed. _“Earth_ time.”

“About a minute- it will be fifty-seven seconds in two days time.”

“A _minute?”_ Martha laughs, waving a wrapped egg-salad sandwich in her lover’s face. “I’ve _never_ slept with someone so soon after meeting them. What’ve you done to me, My Queen?”

“Everything I could, and _more,”_ Hippolyta replies, grinning at her and sitting up as she takes the food. “This is new. What do you humans call this?”

“Have you never had egg salad before?” Martha says incredulously, unwrapping her own sandwich. “God, Hippolyta, how have I been here three years and never made you good Kansas food? Come home early from that dusty old building sometime and I’ll make you some fried chicken like my grandmother used to make.”

And the Queen wraps an arm around her, and they eat together for a moment, staring out over the sparkling water, watching as the horses whinny at one another.

“Do you miss it?”

“What? My grandmother?” Martha says, her mouth full of egg salad and pickles.

“No… your homeland.”

“Hmm.” Martha chews, remembering her manners, then says, “Not as much as I thought I would. I mean, Clark had been dead for- I don’t know, it felt like a hundred years- and with the house getting foreclosed, and the farm falling apart… but the people were good. It was a small town, they cared about you, took care of you… and I do miss him, of course I do, but he’s off doing his thing, living in the big city, saving the world… he doesn’t need to worry about me shuffling around that old farm.”

“He might miss you,” the Queen says mildly, and Martha waves a dismissive hand.

“He’s a big boy, Hippolyta, he can go fifty-seven seconds without me... _you_ on the other hand…” And Martha grins, setting aside her sandwich and sliding her arms around the Queen’s neck. “I’m not so sure.”

“Is that so?” Hippolyta smirks, pressing a salty kiss to her lips. A cold hand slips around her middle and Martha gasps. “You may well be right.”

“Hippolyta- people might _see,”_ Martha protests as the goddess carefully sets down her food and then pushes her back onto the wool blanket.

“This is _perfectly_ acceptable beach decorum,” Hippolyta says, grinning as she looms over her, strong arms planted on either side of her head. “Besides… I ordered the Guard to keep everyone at a distance today.”

Martha opens her mouth to reply, but the Queen of the Underworld leans down and nuzzles her exposed throat, and for some reason, she finds she has nothing to say.

* * *

The sun is already beginning to set.

It was a perfect day filled with good food, wading and swimming in the surprisingly comfortable water, soaking in the sunshine, stealing kisses- and more- as they relaxed on the beach. Martha sits for a while on a warm rock, hugging her knees, watching the clear water splashing up against the stone’s softened edges, watching that deep, beautiful blue shimmering against those aquamarine patches, thinking, waiting…

She strolls down the beach when she sees Hippolyta coaxing the horses away from the water, and she grins. Her Ancient Greek is still rusty, but even she understands enough to know that the Queen is giving the enormous beasts _ten more minutes to play in the lake, and then we must go…_

Martha laughs and watches as the horses all but stomp away, then leans her head against her lover’s shoulder, taking one of her hands in both of hers.

“You’ve spoiled them, Martha,” Hippolyta says, but her smile is warm as she glances down at her. And then it fades as quickly as it appeared, concern seeping into her eyes as she looks at her more clearly. “Are you well? You’re trembling.”

_Oh, Hippolyta..._

“That night, before we… that night, they were telling stories,” Martha begins, stumbling over her words, wincing at how abrupt they sound in her ears. “Antiope talked about her courtship and marriage to Menalippe, and others talked about Venelia and Artemis, Diana and Isabel… do you ever think about that?”

“Do I ever think of my daughter and her wife? How could I not?” Hippolyta says, all but rolling her eyes. Her fingers are cool as they run up and down Martha’s bare arm, and she shivers, then presses on.

“No- I mean… do you ever think about marriage. Getting married.”

And for a long moment Hippolyta is silent, her gaze serious now, and Martha’s smile drops.

“You… don’t?”

“Oh, my darling,” she says at once, taking Martha’s hands in her own. “Do not- no. I want to be yours, and to make you mine. Do not think for a moment that I do not. But look upon this world...”

And she waves a graceful hand towards the lake, the cold light of the Underworld sun, the dark water, the dead trees.

“I love you, little one, but I can only give you what I have, and one day... it will not be enough. One day, you will long for your land, your people, the living world, the blue sky.”

“That’s not true,” Martha protests, but the Queen shakes her head.

“It already is,” she says softly, and Martha sighs and looks away. The setting sun is shining behind her lover’s head, as if she were the Virgin Mary herself, and there is a strange melancholy in her expression, as if she’s bracing herself for the inevitable.

“Do… do you remember when you died, Hippolyta?” Martha says at last, her eyes fixed on the last remaining glimmer of the sun on the horizon. “They came running out of the meeting room, and your sister was wailing like the world was ending, and everything was such a blur. They said you were dead, but there was no body, and so many people had already been back and forth from the Underworld, I didn’t really believe them until John brought me your body. He- he said it needed _a woman’s touch._ And so I washed you. I washed the blood off your armor, off of your skin, out of your hair- you really did a number on yourself, you know…”

Martha reaches out a trembling hand and rests it against her lover’s cold forearm to steady herself, and she shakes her head.

“I’ve buried a lot of loved ones, My Queen… buried Daniel when I was twenty-two, buried my parents, buried… all of Jonathan and my kids that didn’t make it. And- and then I buried Jonathan. And Clark. And when I was there in Limbo, looking down at you, it felt exactly the same as the others. Except this time, it wasn’t just you I was losing, it was everything we could have been. Everything, as impossible and ridiculous as it felt to even think about at the time, that I imagined that we might have said to each other…

“And then you _did_ come back. You came for _me.”_

And Martha raises her chin and looks her in the eye.

“I _do_ miss the living world. I’m not going to lie. But you’re going to _let_ me miss it. You’re not going to worry yourself over this anymore.”

“Martha...” Hippolyta sighs, but Martha presses a finger to her lips.

“You’re not listening, I mean it- if I’m missing Earth, I’ll look at a picture, I’ll- I’ll go to the temples and look at the frescos on the ceilings, I’ll sit in your meeting rooms and stare at the paintings,” Martha says, agitated now, her hands seizing at the fur draped over her lover’s shoulder. Hippolyta looks away and does not respond for a long moment.

“I only want you to be happy. As happy as you can possibly be,” she finally says, and her voice is soft and uncertain. Martha has never heard her sound so timid before.

“People miss things all the time, Hippolyta. It doesn’t mean they’re unhappy.”

The Queen finally looks back at her, and her eyes are watery. And Martha reaches up and cups her cheeks, fingers brushing against those high cheekbones, then she smiles.

“Besides… I doubt any living sky can be as beautiful a blue as your eyes,” she murmurs, pulling her forward and pressing a kiss to her lips.

_Oh, little one..._

And Hippolyta doesn’t pull away as the kiss ends, only shifts slightly so then their cheeks are together, as if she’s listening as her living lover breathes, in and out, in and out...

“You deserve so much more, Martha Kent.”

“Do I?” Martha pulls away slightly and raises an eyebrow. “So I guess I’m just settling for you, is that what this is?”

And Hippolyta grins, but she raises her head to look out to the blazing sea, where the sun is bowing down to the arrival of the moon.

“As long as you are sure.”

“Hippolyta…” Martha sighs, almost in frustration, then she gives the powerful goddess a little shake. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

Hippolyta looks bemused, but she says nothing as ordered, and follows curiously as Martha leads her to the edge of the water. Only when gentle waves are beginning to lap over their feet do they stop, and Martha almost looks worried as she turns and look up at her.

“The stars are already coming out,” she says absently, staring up at the darkening sky. The horses are still kicking up water, clearly enjoying their extended play time, and Martha gives a rueful smile.

“I… I know we were just arguing and that’s not a traditional segue... but the reason I asked- that I brought up the marriage question was… when I was in Elysium, I had something made.” Martha lifts Hippolyta’s hand and brushes the lightest of kisses over her lover’s palm. “...do you like it?”

And the Queen of the Amazons looks down, her eyes widening in alarm at the sight of Martha slipping down to her knees. But her arms are outstretched, like they had been that one morning, beside that starlit lake… but instead of a cup of tea resting in her hands, there is a wooden box, and in that box is a ring…

_I thought you might like… it’ll warm you up._

“Marry me… would you?”

For a long moment, Hippolyta is silent, but when she does speak, her voice is shaky.

“That was going to be _my_ line.”

“Hippolyta!” Martha laughs, but she’s still trembling, almost as if in fear, in fear of rejection, like she had been all those times in their first months together, told to wait, told to be patient. But Hippolyta reaches out and touches the gray strands of hair framing Martha’s face. Her touch is as reverent as it had been the first time. And then she kneels down and cups those warm cheeks with gentle hands, and her voice is an unsteady whisper as she says,

“Do you mean it? Do you truly want this?”

“You know I do.”

_I love you more than life…_

“I mean- you don’t have to decide right away. If you need-”

“ _Yes,”_ Hippolyta interrupts, and her face almost looks exasperated as she smiles down at her. “Yes, _of course_ I will, you know I want nothing more- but _oh,_ my darling…”

And Hippolyta takes Martha’s hand and lifts her to her feet, and Martha stares apprehensively up at her.

“You must do something for me, Martha Kent.”

Martha looks up at her with confused eyes, then says in a small voice,

“Count?”

“Oh, little one…” And there are tears spilling down Hippolyta’s cheeks as she laughs and gathers Martha up into her arms.

“You must _never_ kneel before me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Now if you excuse me, I have a wedding to plan... :D
> 
>   
> ~~Lookit these angsty fools arguing about how to make each other happier RIGHT before getting engaged~~


	13. Damage Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first signs of trouble.

_The door breaks in, and shadowy figures all around her jump to their feet, tangible darkness brushing past her cheek as they move faster than the speed of light to surround the newcomer._

_“Stand aside.”_

_It is the kind of command that parts oceans, that causes the earth to quake, the sky to fall. But instead, they creep forward, closing in._

_“I said ‘stand aside’ mortal.”_

_She throws one aside like a crumpled sheet of paper, and then he is moving, moving too fast for her to stop him—_

_“No, Clark—_ _let her go _—_ leave her alone _—_ ” _

_But he doesn’t, and it’s no longer Clark, her son, her baby boy: it’s some stranger, some tall, terrifying stranger covered head to toe in a black suit, his eyes flashing red, and his mouth isn’t moving, but the room is echoing with the sound of his droning voice…_

_“Loneliness... Alienation... Fear... Despair...”_

_They’ve all risen up against her now, and her sword flashes out to no avail, and Martha tries to run forward to stop them, but she can’t, she can’t move as they bear down upon her _—_ _

_“Leave her alone, don’t touch her, don’t touch our Queen, she’s mine _—_ she’s mine, she’s mine _—_ oh gods, please…” _

* * *

_“Hippolyta _—_ ” _

Martha jerks awake, her lover’s name still on her lips.

The room is dark. The bed is empty.

Martha takes a shuddering breath and falls back to the pillows. She’s still trembling, fighting off the last grasping tendrils of her nightmare, blinking away the images of Clark, the Clark whose face had been broadcasted across every screen before Darkseid’s invasion… and the sight of him and the others surging forward to attack the Queen in the Batcave, with her struggling in the background against some invisible bonds, unable to stop them, unable to do anything but watch...

_Mine..._

The curtains flutter gently against the windows and Martha raises her head. It’s barely dawn; the sky is still dark, with only the barest glow of fire on the horizon. Her feet lead her across the room as she shrugs on a nightgown, yawning widely. Hippolyta is not in her study or the baths. Perhaps she’s already gone to the training fields.

Martha wanders the empty halls, peering into this and that room, until she finally finds who she’s looking for. She’s there, in the royal guest rooms, sitting against the very window that Martha had stood before on her first morning in the Underworld...

But she is not alone.

There is a woman. Another…

The room is dark, but she can see the silhouette of a second woman, her body wrapped tightly around the Queen’s like a snake, one graceful arm around her neck, the other between her legs, fingers moving at a steady, urgent rhythm. Hippolyta’s head is thrown back against the windowsill, eyes closed, jaw slack as she gives desperate, gasping moans, her hips thrusting forward, completely unseeing as Martha stares from the archway.

_No..._

But she can’t move. She can’t move, she can’t speak, she can’t even _breathe_ as she takes in the scene with wide eyes, frozen in this entryway like a fool, one arm still upraised in greeting to her lover, her deceiver, her _Queen _—__

 _“My dear, we have a guest.”_ The other woman speaks Ancient Greek with a strange, lilting accent, but even in this darkness, Martha can see the smug expression on that hateful, shadowed face as it lifts and assess her from across the room. It is a look of challenge, a look of triumph.

_No… no, no, no, no, no, NO _—_ _

And then Martha is running forward, completely unaware of what she is doing, completely unaware of anything but the long, low cry of her breaking heart _—_ it is strangled, barely more than a whisper...

And she should be screaming, screaming in rage like the harpies, screeching like those posh, indignant women on TV when they catch their husbands in the act, but there is only pain, pain and betrayal _—_

Her arms are swinging, fingers twisted into claws, and she’s seizing at long hair and cool silk and pale skin, trying with all her human strength to tear that _creature_ away from her place, _her_ place _—_ _hers _—__ and there’s a brief, violent tussle, like she’s fighting blind, here, in this dark room that once was so beautiful, and golden, cat-like eyes are looking steadily into hers—and it is then that she realizes that the woman _—_ _the other woman _—__ is beautiful, and her face is heavily painted, and her eyes are surrounded with dark, alluring makeup, and Martha is so upset by her beauty, so enraged that this woman looks more like the rightful partner of a Queen than she, and she can’t, she refuses to look upon her for a single second more-

All at once, she’s throwing them both from the windowsill, down to the courtyard below _—_ and too late she realizes she didn’t get a chance to slap Hippolyta across the face for _daring_ to do this to her, for _humiliating_ her like this, for having the gall to betray her _—_ and not even in some secret, secluded temple somewhere, but _here,_ in the very room where _she_ used to sleep, and dream of her _—_

* * *

_“Martha!”_

And Martha jerks awake.

Hippolyta’s arms are around her, her face looming overhead, her eyes wide with concern, and her touch gentle and soothing, even as Martha thrashes against her, fists beating wildly against her chest.

“Be _calm,_ little one, it was a dream.”

 _“Hippolyta…”_ But her voice is weak, cracked, and her lover silences her with a soft kiss and reaches across the nightstand. Martha’s fingers tangle roughly with golden hair. “You… you were…”

 _“Shhh…_ it was only a dream,” she murmurs, and Martha shivers.

“I saw you...”

 _“Drink.”_ Hippolyta is holding the edge of a glass against her lips, and Martha opens her mouth obediently. The fragrant wine is sweet upon her tongue, and it calms her trembling almost immediately. But her mind is still racing as she stares at the dark room over her lover’s shoulder, and clutches at cold flesh with her fingertips.

“Please… _please…”_

_Tell me this is real. Please, just tell me this is real, and the rest were dreams, they were only dreams..._

Clark, tearing into her on the concrete floor of the Batcave. And that beautiful, disgusting woman, consuming her on the windowsill…

“It was a _dream,”_ Hippolyta repeats, her voice soothing as she sets the wine glass down once more. And then her arms are around her, pulling her close. “Now go to sleep, little one... we’ll talk in the morning.”

And Martha opens her mouth, but the wine has already done its work. She is asleep before she can respond.

* * *

It’s a chilly morning, a stark contrast to a few days ago, when it had been warm and crisp and pleasant: perfect beach weather. Today, there’s a heaviness hanging over the Underworld, a dullness, like winter has come early.

“It’s just the early morning fog. The sun will burn it away, in time.”

Hippolyta’s voice floats over to her as she steps out to join Martha on the balcony. Her kiss of greeting is warm, but Martha remains stiff in her arms, still unable to meet her eyes. The Queen steps back and pauses to take a second glance at her.

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m heading out.” Martha's voice is more brusque than she intended, but she only winces and goes on, “There’s someone I need to tell about our engagement. I think- it’s better that he hears it from me, before word gets around.”

Hippolyta withdraws slightly, but if she’s disappointed by Martha’s chilly manners, she doesn’t let it show.

“I hope he takes it well.”

Martha nods shortly, but she doesn’t turn to look into those worried eyes until Hippolyta’s fingertips brush back her hair and gently raise her chin.

“...please tell me what is wrong.”

Martha looks away.

“It will make you upset,” she mumbles.

“Your being upset is already making me upset,” she replies. Martha gives a small, meaningless smile and raises her head. Her eyes are sore, as if she had been crying all night.

“My dream...” she begins, biting her lip, then forcing herself to go on. “I dreamed that you were unfaithful to me... that I found you with another woman.”

 _Why would you dream that, how could you even accuse me of something like that?!_ any man would’ve demanded, all bluster and angry defense, but Hippolyta only looks at her, those beautiful eyes never leaving Martha’s face.

“Oh, child… I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice soft, mournful. Martha looks sharply at her.

 _“Did_ you? Have you?” she asks in a rush, her voice rising two octaves with sudden panic.

“No, of course not, I only meant _—_ ”

“Then don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault,” she snaps, almost more relieved than irritated. Hippolyta raises an eyebrow, and Martha shakes her head, grumpily crossing her arms and turning away in an effort to brush off the conflicting emotions. “It’s just me, I… I probably ate something before bed.”

But Hippolyta says nothing as she gazes steadily at her, and for once in her life, Martha wishes that this Amazon Goddess of Queens was not such an excellent mind reader, so in-tune with people’s thoughts and moods and worries.

“You…” she begins, the thought still not quite fully formed. “You would let me know, wouldn’t you? If there were things you wanted me to do. Things we’re not doing now, things we haven’t done yet.”

Hippolyta does not reply, and Martha huffs impatiently and waves an absent hand, trying in vain to make sense.

“I mean, in… in our physical relationship,” she says haltingly, her stare fixed on the Queen’s clavicle, doing her best to avoid those sharp, penetrating eyes. “You _—_ you wouldn’t…”

“I waited for you for longer than you can fathom, Martha Kent,” Hippolyta says calmly. “Every moment you are here and at peace, I am happier than I ever thought possible.”

“Yes, but that’s not the question,” Martha grumbles, butting her head against that hard shoulder.

“You have nothing to fear, little one,” Hippolyta says, stroking her hair, and subtly pushing away her battering ram of a head. “There is no one else. You know this.”

Martha sighs. And for the first time this day, she steps forward, moving into her lover’s arms. They tighten around her, pulling her close, and as she snuggles into her fiancée’s embrace, she feels a flicker of contentment for the first time since waking in a panic early this morning.

“I know,” she murmurs. “I know it in my bones, I know it in my heart, but sometimes, I just…”

There is a waiting silence, as Martha turns her face inward **,** smothering her breath against strong muscles and fine cotton, stalling for time. And Martha can feel those gentle fingers combing through her mousy hair, and it’s comfortable, and familiar, and right _..._ how can she let her sense of reality be so violently jarred by a single image, a _false_ image, of all things?

“How _—_ how many people have there been? For you?” The words make no sense, but it’s as if the weight of the entire Underworld lies behind them, a truth colder than the frozen lake at the bottom of Tartarus. The Queen’s lips are soft as they brush over her forehead.

“You know the answer to that.”

_The handsome gatekeeper of Olympus. The human woman from Kansas._

“No, I mean, how many have you… slept with.”

“Martha…” Hippolyta sighs, as if they have had this argument ten, twenty times already.

 _“Please,”_ Martha interrupts in a small, but stubborn voice, even though she’s been in New Themyscira long enough to already know the answer: hundreds, probably thousands _—_ every Amazon, dead or alive; the ancient goddesses who descended again and again to the mortal Earth, so smitten they were with this warrior queen who had emerged like a siren from the sea; ambassadors and captains and generals from centuries of War, trysts on the battlefield, lovers standing side by side in combat; and even more in times of peace, from days and nights filled with feasting, festivals, rituals; there are others… many, many others.

“I am very old, little one,” Hippolyta says quietly, interrupting Martha’s bitter thoughts. “I have lived through many generations where the pleasures of the flesh were celebrated freely. I am not ashamed of that.”

But her voice trails off as Martha squirms in her arms.

“You are upset.”

“No, I… I mean, I can’t talk, I was married twice before you, I’m no saint,” Martha says begrudgingly, rubbing her cheek against Hippolyta’s arm.

“...are you ashamed of your marriages?”

Martha squirms even more.

“I shouldn’t be.”

Hippolyta looks at her like she can’t quite figure her out, and Martha almost smiles, taking some small delight in the fact that she managed to stump the wisest of Amazons.

“And you _shouldn’t_ be ashamed of your past,” Martha says abruptly, patting Hippolyta’s hand. “I shouldn’t, either. It’s beautiful. We could probably use more thinking like that in the States _—_ free love, bringing back the hippies and all that.”

Hippolyta practically rolls her eyes at Martha’s pathetic attempt at damage control, but Martha can tell that she’s more frustrated at the lack of resolution than anything she’s said, and she leans in to press a kiss to that cold cheek.

“I’ll _work_ on it,” she whispers defensively, sliding her arms tightly around the Queen’s neck. “In the meantime, _you_ can work on not canoodling other women in my dreams, hmm?”

 _“Martha…”_ Hippolyta begins, but Martha silences her with a kiss, long and deep and tender. And when she pulls away, she raises an eyebrow, almost a challenge, and the goddess relents, her lips twisted into a smirk of reluctant admiration _—_ and of surrender.

“You wield a strange and dangerous power over me, Martha Kent,” Hippolyta murmurs, her fingers brushing up and down her arms. “Be careful.”

Martha laughs aloud and turns away at last, stepping up to the edge of the balcony.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she tosses over her shoulder, and then she’s tumbling over the edge, falling in midair, just barely missing being smacked in the head by some marble, vine-covered bust of an ancient goddess, and landing gracelessly onto the seat of her waiting chariot. The horses whinny somewhat louder than necessary at her antics, and she snaps the reins a little harder than usual.

_“You shush.”_

And then they’re speeding off toward the horizon, and Martha turns around in her seat to watch as New Themyscira fades into the fog. And the last thing she sees is Hippolyta standing alone on that balcony... but she’s smiling broadly, shaking her head in amusement, and a split-second before the palace is eclipsed by the morning gloom, the Queen raises her hand and blows her a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! (Also thanks for sticking around! I was sick! And after two weeks, I'm finally mostly not sick. :P) 
> 
> By the way, the double-dream cop out is courtesy of George Pérez. I would NEVER be so cruel or bold. ~~or would I~~
> 
> Also, I know there's a lot of tension building going on in these last few chapters, which is far less fun to read and write than pure fluff, but I will say that it IS going in a particular direction, and I hope the payoff will be worth it. And I honestly I think it's impossible for these two to be in complete agreement ALL the time, unless someone isn't saying what they're thinking, and 99% of the time, that person is bound to be Martha... we actually get to see her in her element in the next chapter, so we'll see how much she has and hasn't changed.
> 
> ~~Also, the second dream was the hardest thing I've ever written in my life, I still try to avoid looking directly at it.~~


	14. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha pays New Smallville a visit.

_Hello, Jonathan… I know it’s been a while, but I just wanted to let you know I’m getting married. I hope you don’t mind…_

Aethon snorts loudly, as if he can hear Martha practicing her speech, and doesn’t think very much of it.

“I think that’s enough of _that_ for today,” she scolds, tugging at the reins. Nyctaeus nips at her partner’s neck, then the horses continue their streak across the morning sky without further comment. But there’s still a pit of uneasiness in Martha’s stomach, as if this chariot was headed for Smallville instead of Elysium. As if she were preparing herself for marching into the diner and announcing to all of the frumpy old people the graphic details about her new life as a homosexual, instead of a private conversation with her...

_Ex-husband._

It’s not a phrase she likes. She and Jonathan never fell out, never divorced, never did anything to merit the stinging insult of _ex._ It’s just… not possible to call him her husband anymore, or even her _late_ husband, as she had after his death.

_I hope we can be friends._

Those were the last words he spoke to her that one morning in New Themyscria. Today will tell if he really meant it.

* * *

Martha’s hopes of making a discreet visit are instantly shattered by the fact that the entire community comes to welcome her in front of Jonathan’s grandfather’s farm. It’s like everyone who ever died within twenty miles of Smallville is standing out on Grandpa Kent’s yard, and Martha sighs. She wouldn’t be surprised to see a barbecue going, a table covered in bowls of potato salad, coolers filled with beer and pop, paper plates being handed out.

_Jonathan, why…_

But the horses set her down, and when she climbs out, she’s met with silence. Not since she walked the narrow pathways of Tartarus has she endured such scrutiny, such blatant stares: men, women, children, all still as death. It’s as if they’re unsure whether to welcome her as royalty, an extension of the crown, or one of their own.

“Martha!”

And Laura Lang pushes her way through the crowd, wiping her hands on her apron like a true Kansas girl.

“Come on in, everyone can’t wait to see you.”

* * *

It’s an afternoon full of hugging women and shaking hands with men and patting the heads of children. The townspeople seem almost wary at first, fingering her long, fur-trimmed cloak, the rich material of her tunic, the flowers from her garden that she’d nervously braided into her hair this morning. But their curiosity gets the better of them, and soon they are plying her with questions of their loved ones back home, cornering her with long, rambling stories of the history of what is apparently New Smallville, and telling her for the hundredth time to eat something, there’s plenty of food.

Once, she sees Jonathan over the crowd. He’s standing with a group of men, drinking a beer, probably talking something about farming by the way he keeps gesturing out over the fields. He catches her eye and pauses, and then he turns away, and Martha sighs.

And the strange thing is, no one asks about the Queen. Oh, they talk about her and the Amazons, their voices revenant, even the old ladies who haven’t liked anything since Eisenhower was president. But they seem uncertain about making the connection between Martha and this Queen they pray to. Later, Laura pulls Martha aside and into her empty bedroom, and after giving an impatient, _Yes, Nell and Lana DID eventually find out about you and Henry, what did you think they were going to do, Laura?_ Martha asks about the chilly reception to her actual reason for being in the Underworld in the first place.

“Oh, God, Martha- it’s Smallville. What do you expect from them, that they would just happily open up their arms to a woman leaving a good man to go galavanting off with a woman?”

And Martha stares.

And then she wonders how on Earth she ever forgot… all those years, all those lost moments, all those nights spent curled up in bed, face buried in her pillow, trying to pray away this side of her that she didn’t even understand…

“Is _that_ why?”

And Laura Lang tilts her head, her arms crossed as she stares at her.

“Has the world changed so much since I’ve been dead? Of _course_ that’s why.”

“It’s legal now,” Martha mutters, absently fingering the cotton bedspread.

“...what’s legal now?”

“Gay marriage. It’s legal in all fifty states. The Supreme Court legalized it not long after the President signed the Alien Amnesty Act.”

“...aliens?”

And Martha sighs, but she’s smiling wryly as she shakes her head and looks over at her old friend.

“I don’t know why I care. I don’t- I’m happy, I’m happy with her.”

“Look, I’m not the one you need to convince,” Laura says, raising her hands. “I’ve got nothing against women, you were there at that strip club. It’s _them_ you need to convince.”

And Martha laughs in spite of herself.

“You still remember that.”

“Yeah, don’t… _please_ don’t mention that to Lewis.”

“Don’t worry, there are a _lot_ of things I’m not mentioning to Lewis,” Martha says with a snort. But Laura reaches out and embraces her, and for a moment, it’s familiar and warm, and it feels _right,_ being back home, with these people from her childhood, these people who stood with her and supported her through everything…

“Am I invited to the wedding?”

Martha pulls away, staring incredulously at her friend’s face.

“How did you know about- I haven’t even told Jonathan-”

_“Please._ You show up completely out of the blue after three years of living here? I know you, Martha Clark, you’re either pregnant or getting married, and- pardon my assuming, but it looks like your baby carrying days are probably past you, plus _lesbians-”_

“You shut your mouth,” Martha laughs. But it’s with a little glow of renewed confidence that she makes her way out of the bedroom, smiles and nods at the grandmas still mingling around the kitchen, and goes to find Jonathan Kent.

* * *

It’s comfortable.

Jonathan shakes a few hands, waves at some others, and then he’s there, that familiar strong oak tree of a man walking by her side, walking together down the dirt path.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take Grandpa’s car- or, your horses-”

“Jonathan, I’m _fine.”_

And before she knows it, she’s tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, their secret signal for him to _leave it be…_ and he glances down at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve missed you.”

And Martha keeps her eyes fixed on the long road ahead of them.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

The ground is a little rocky, and their footsteps are in sync, Jonathan’s heavy boots and Martha’s Themysciran sandals against the gravel.

“Your grandfather seems happy.”

“He is. He enjoys doing what he does, raising animals, feeding people.”

“What happened to your grandmother? I’m surprised she wasn’t back there.”

“She died a lot earlier than he did.” Jonathan’s voice is matter-of-fact. “She found her own path. Went off to sea. Found a place that suited her better.”

_Jonathan…_

The silence quickly grows uncomfortable as the words settle, with their hidden, subtle jab at the messy situation that is them.

“You know I wouldn’t have, for the world-”

“I didn’t say anything about _you.”_

“Jonathan,” Martha says, her voice sharp, and he heaves a sigh.

“I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s been a while, seeing you.”

“I know. Just... not now, honey, please...” And Martha waves a hand at the rustling corn fields, the shining sun, the singing birds. “Let’s just enjoy this.”

And so they walk, and Martha asks about the farm, and Jonathan talks, and sometimes they’re silent, but it’s never an angry silence, it’s never a cold silence, it’s just two people, walking together, alone in the world…

“So. This is where it was.”

And Martha looks around, seeing nothing but fields, this dirt road, the mountains in the distance.

“This is where what was?”

“The boys and I were right out there, clearing this field when the Queen appeared. It was after the war, this whole place was bodies, broken machinery… and she stood right here, watching. I hadn’t seen her since we were out fighting on the battlefield. And she stalled for a while, like she didn’t want to say it. But eventually she did. And that’s when I realized it was time to stop thinking you were going to come home to _me.”_

“Jonathan…”

“No, I knew it was possible. Maybe even hoped it would. You were still young, and any man would’ve been lucky to get you.”

Jonathan is staring down at her now, facing her, his big, calloused hands just barely brushing against her elbows. Martha stares down at the soft dirt, but when she tries to speak, there’s a lump in her throat and she can’t seem to get the words out.

“No, it’s all right,” Jonathan says quietly, then he’s turning away. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

* * *

A house sits at the end of the road.

It’s not a carbon copy of the farmhouse Jonathan built for them in Smallville, but the porch, those flowerbeds, that screen door… everything seems so familiar, it’s like stepping into a memory… or like everything else, everything from the last three years _was_ a memory.

“Jonathan-” Martha begins, her voice sounding a little lost, but he takes her hand and leads her forward.

“Look.”

And she stares until she’s standing there in its shadow. The paint is sparkling, the stone foundation polished, with none of the wear and tear of the last decade.

“You always said you liked that house on 7th Street. I made some changes when I built this one.”

He sounds like he’s about to go on, but Martha can hear loud, insistent barking before Jonathan’s even opened the screen door, and then—

“Oh my God, _Hank!”_

It’s their dog, it’s their _dog,_ the stupid dog who started this whole thing, got them both here in this perfect, lifeless world…

Martha sinks down to her knees, Hank barking and panting and dancing in her arms, his tail wagging like crazy, his adorable, innocent face poking into hers again and again, and his wet, sticky tongue licking every inch of her that he can get, and she’s burying her face in soft fur, dog paws scrabbling over her clothes, loud dog breathing in her ear, and she _never_ would’ve spoiled him like this when he was alive…

“Hank, let her _breathe,_ you dumb dog.”

Jonathan’s voice floats across the porch from whatever he’s doing inside, and Hank barks, then goes scurrying off, narrowly missing tearing a hole in the screen door as he careens into the house. And Martha stays where she is, kneeling here in the dirt, shivering, one hand pressed against her mouth, the other splayed against the ground, keeping her propped upright, keeping her from falling apart.

“There, now, you’re all right,” And Jonathan’s squatting down next to her, and he’s offering her a handkerchief. She takes it without a word and blows her nose. “Looks like you missed that dog more than you missed _me.”_

And Martha shakes her head, but Jonathan’s leading her inside, and she can’t seem to breathe as she steps into their house, _their_ house, except there’s a wide, open living room with a balcony looking over from the second floor, a place where she could call for her boys instead of yelling up the staircase, a place where she could have company, a place where they could sit and read in the evenings instead of hanging around the kitchen table watching that tiny TV… she moves forward, and the kitchen is bigger, cleaner, brighter, and it feels different, warmer somehow than their old house, with its dark walls and seventies furniture…

“You, you...” Martha whispers as she reaches out a shaking hand and brushes her fingertips over the woodwork, the cabinets, the island in the middle of the kitchen, the bookcases, the filmy curtains, the railing alongside the stairs, and there’s Clark’s room, the bed neatly made for once, and down the hall is their bedroom, with a bedspread she’s never seen before, and a rocking chair she’s never sat in, and a field outside the window that she’s never seen the sun rise over...

_You did all this._

She sinks down onto the bed, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the world through the glass pane. It’s like time has stopped. It’s like nothing ever changed, the last fifteen, twenty years never happened. In another minute, she should pull herself together and go downstairs to start dinner… call Clark in from where he’s playing in the yard, yell at him to find his father and tell him it’s time to eat...

“You could, you know.”

_For better, or for worse._

She can’t look at him, but she knows he’s standing there in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, staring at the floor.

_Jonathan…_

She used to love that name. She used to write it in her notebooks in school, steal glances at him across classrooms, watch him with his friends in the hallways, always the serious one, the mature one, that farm boy Jonathan Kent.

She’d cried her eyes out when they’d said he was dead, another soldier lost in Vietnam.

But when Daniel had died, they’d found each other again, and it’d felt like fate, like the very stars had aligned, just for them.

_For richer, or for poorer._

The wind rustles through the trees, and Martha closes her eyes as the cool air filters through the open window to brush against her wet cheeks. The sun is already beginning to set.

“I know you like her. There’s a lot about her to like. And she likes you.” Jonathan’s footsteps approach over the hardwood floor, and then the bed sags slightly as he sits down beside her. And for a moment, it is silent. A breathless silence. A waiting silence.

“But I know you, Martha.” His hand reaches out and covers hers, and his touch is so gentle. It was always so gentle. _“I know you.”_

His voice cracks on the last word, and Martha ducks her head as fresh tears roll down her cheeks. She’s never seen him so emotional, Jonathan, _her_ Jonathan, her strong, fearless husband...

_In sickness and in health._

She doesn’t want to, but she takes a deep, shaky breath and turns to look at him at last. His face is blurry.

“I know you do.”

His rough hands reach up and brush the tears away from her face, and his gaze is so tender, his eyes so soft, and- and he’s so close, their noses are practically touching…

_To love and to cherish._

But he doesn’t lean in, even though she can see it in his eyes, even though she almost wants him to, to make this decision for them, to do it, just do it, just take her, and remind her of what it feels like to be human…

“I had a dream.”

The words fall from her mouth as if spoken by someone else. But she knows why she says them, despite how unconscious they were, despite how much she didn’t want to. And Jonathan closes his eyes. She can almost feel him praying, begging, willing this moment not to end. But it has to. It must. And he doesn’t open them as he says in a broken voice,

“...what did you dream?”

She wipes her eyes, and then she reaches out and pulls him close. This was all she wanted, for so many of those long, lonely nights, all she wanted was to hold him, to have him back in her arms again, keeping her safe, keeping the shadows at bay... in another world, another life, she would’ve felt his heart beating beside hers, strong and steady, like the soldier he was.

But there is nothing. He is dead, and she… Martha looks over his shoulder at the world outside. The sun has already set. The stars are beginning to dance across the night sky. The moon is just a sliver of light on the horizon

_Jonathan…_

He resists for a moment, just a moment, then allows her to pull away. He refuses to look at her, but when she cups his cheeks, her palms meet tears that aren’t her own.

_Til death do us part..._

“I dreamed that my heart was breaking.”

* * *

Hippolyta’s study is filled with soft light when Martha returns late at night. She has a scroll open before her on the desk, but she is staring so intently at the wall when she enters, Martha wonders if she even knows what it says.

The Queen looks up as she approaches, but she doesn’t speak. Martha unclasps her cloak and lets it fall across an empty chair, and then she takes her lover’s hand. The ring she gave her, a symbol of a promise and their future together is gleaming on her finger. Martha stares at it, breathless, as a wave of relief washes over her.

_What if..._

But there is no use dwelling on it. Martha shakes her head, swallows hard, and bends to brush a kiss over the cold metal.

“Come.”

And Hippolyta rises and follows her without question.

* * *

When it’s over, she doesn’t understand why Martha curls up against her, the side of her head resting against her unbeating heart, eyes staring out over the glimmering city and the dark sky dotted with stars, her voice still breathless with wonder as she whispers,

_You know me, too._

But Hippolyta looks down at her, and she doesn’t ask. She only presses a light kiss to her damp forehead and buries her face in soft hair.

_I’d like to know you more._

And Martha Kent closes her eyes, the faintest smile on her lips as contentment and fatigue seep into her bones at last.

_I’d like that too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! ~~Also happy Valentine's Day~~
> 
> I know this chapter is a whole lot of Jonathan/Martha shipping angst but…
> 
> That last part is the entire point of it. It’s the clincher, it’s why Martha doesn’t just go back to New Smallville or even Smallville when she’s been struggling so hard to come to terms with this new world and culture (because let’s be real, even Diana had trouble assimilating with the Amazons, and she was like… the Queen’s _daughter)._ And she and Hippolyta are not perfect: they have a lot of bumps in the road to get over, but they _will_ get there, because they want to. Martha doesn’t want to leave, she _wants_ to be with Hippolyta, even when they’re working through things, and they still want to know each other more, even though sometimes what they learn about each other hurts.
> 
> TL:DR I _love_ the new set of challenges these two present, especially since there’s no “pure” one (aka Diana or Kara) in this ship, just two very messy women whose messes sometimes cause drama.
> 
> In the next chapter, we'll meet Hippolyta's... mom(s)??? and finally get this wedding thing going. :)


	15. Many Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More in-law meets and greets.
> 
> Aka a slightly more fluffy chapter to make up for the angst of the last two.

In all three years she’s been at New Themyscira, Martha Kent has never seen a wedding.

There have been festivals and feasts and rituals, but there are no birthdays, no anniversaries, no weddings, none of those events that would typically indicate the passage of time.

 _The gods do not usually marry,_ Hippolyta tells her one morning as they’re riding together in the black chariot, passing over some dusty craters that would look more at home on the moon than in the middle of the Asphodel Meadows.

“Some did, of course,” she adds when she sees the flicker of alarm in Martha’s eyes. “But they were rarely happy marriages. Gods and Mankind alike have been consumed by violence and lust since the beginning of time... even the sons of Kronos seized their wives by force.”

“You seized _me_ by force.”

Hippolyta pauses and turns to look at her, as if unsure if she’s serious or not. But it’s an uncertainty that Martha quickly puts to rest by slipping her arms around the taller woman’s neck and grinning up at her.

“...by the force of your _great, irresistible_ beauty.”

“Is that so?” Hippolyta says with a smirk, leaning forward and nipping teasingly at Martha’s bottom lip. “Then we could just as well say that _you_ captured _me_ with your great wit-”

“My _what-”_

“And this beautiful hair that shines like moonlight-”

“You know there’s a nursing home right up from where I live, we could’ve gone over and you would’ve seen a whole lot more of-”

“And these _cheeks_ that burn so magnificently when I tell you how much I love you.”

Martha huffs and buries her head in soft fur in an attempt to hide her wide, happy smile, and refuses to let her lover look at her until her blushing cheeks have cooled once more.

But Hippolyta has been in odd form this morning, anxiously pacing the wide floor of their bedroom when she thought Martha wasn’t looking, putting up and taking down her hair three times before finally deciding to let it flow in waves down her back, polishing her sword and worrying over the folds of her cloak until Martha quietly took her restless hands and covered them with kisses.

_There is someone I must visit to petition for blessings over our marriage…_

And the Queen had looked down at Martha with a quizzical expression on her face.

_Would… you like to accompany me?_

“Look, little one.”

Martha emerges from her self-imposed suffocation via animal pelt, and looks over the edge of the chariot. They’re flying over a smooth, dark ocean. Smoky wisps of fog rise up from the surface, as if the water is boiling. Martha stares at the bleak sight, the broad smile fading from her face.

“I didn’t know the river got so wide out here,” she says, glancing at the enormous stretch of ripping water, and then turning again to press her face against warm, comforting fur. She’s never _really_ liked the ocean, not like this...

“When Hades ruled the underworld, the souls _were_ the river.” Hippolyta’s voice is nonchalant. “I dredged them out, one by one, and delivered them to their place of eternal rest, whether it be torment or paradise.”

“That must’ve taken forever.”

“It was necessary.”

Silence falls once more, the cool mist of the morning pressing against their faces as they fly on. Several moments pass, then Martha glances up at Hippolyta’s solemn face and says casually,

“So is this the same Hera that you always call out to when we’re in bed?”

“She is the patron of the Amazons, our creator, along with the other goddesses of Olympus,” Hippolyta replies, her voice soft and reverent. “She is the goddess of marriage, of women, birth… she is the one who guided me in Diana’s creation. Above all of the others, the Amazons worship her.”

“...in bed?”

Too late Hippolyta sees the flicker of jealousy on Martha’s face, and she catches herself.

“Oh, my darling… when will that cease to be your first question?”

“When the answer stops being _yes,”_ Martha replies, but she butts her head against Hippolyta’s shoulder and then snuggles against her once more, a sign of surrender. “Why does she live all the way out here?”

“She inflicted terrible pain onto those who Zeus pursued, tormenting them and their children. Her rage was justified, but her deeds could not go unpunished.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t happy about that.”

“The gods are proud creatures… proud and strong and passionate.”

 _God, Hippolyta, you sound just as nervous as I do,_ Martha thinks as an island appears on the foggy horizon. Hippolyta leans forward, one hand subtly resting against Martha’s knee, and she takes the reins. And Martha watches as the horses toss their heads and plunge forward.

The fog clears almost as if wiped away by some invisible hand, and all at once, it’s crystal blue waves, white beaches, thick forests. There’s a harbor with sailboats and fishing boats, limestone buildings peeking out from the lush green forest, a boardwalk with shops and tiny figures walking to and fro. Martha stares eagerly over the edge of the chariot, wondering what kind of punishment this paradise must be. But to her surprise, they don’t land on the weathered wooden planks, or the cobblestone roads, or the wide arena that almost opens up beneath them, or even the long landing field that seems so strange and modern amidst the brick and marble pillars. Instead, they continue onwards, until the island is almost past them altogether, and then, in a distance, another string of islands comes into view.

“The Island of Healing. Reform Island. The Forbidden Island.”

Hippolyta names each of them from the sky, her lips nearly pressed against Martha’s ear as she holds her close. And at last, they begin a downward descent and a final shadow emerges from the sea.

_“So you have come to visit me on my personal Ogygia at last, My Queen?”_

The low, disembodied voice whispers over them while they are still far above the rocky surface of the island, and the horses whinny nervously.

“Aethon, Nyctaeus, _ηρέμησε,”_ Martha hisses, seizing at the reins and pulling them back.

“Come down and meet us face to face, Hera. We wish only to talk,” Hippolyta replies sternly, and the voice gives a loud laugh, the harsh sound echoing over the water. And all at once, wheels of the chariot scrape across gravel, as if they had been thrown down from the sky onto the jagged stones littered before the water. Towering cliffs rise up behind them, as if to intimidate the long stretch of water—and them—into submission.

“Why are you so determined to inflict hope upon the downtrodden queens, my child? Can you not see we are pinned down by the sky, abandoned by the sea?” The voice comes from behind them now, soft and musical, and Martha turns to see a woman. She is tall, taller even than Hippolyta, and she is beautiful. But it is a solemn beauty, a grave beauty, a frightening beauty, even as her eyes soften as they rove Hippolyta’s face. “...if only you visited such comforts upon me as you did the Queen of the Underwater Nations.”

The words are casual, ironic, but the goddess’ eyes are glittering as Hippolyta steps forward and, seemingly forcing herself to not drop down to her knees, takes the pale hand and brings the unadorned fingers up to her lips.

“Great Hera… the Queen of Atlantis found peace, as one day, you also will. I-”

“You think your story is over, Hippolyta,” Hera interrupts, reaching out and brushing her palms over the cloak that Hippolyta had fussed over so thoroughly a few hours ago. “The tide still turns, and yet you openly court danger.”

“I _know_ that neither my story, nor the storm has passed,” Hippolyta says sternly, ignoring her words' thinly veiled double meaning. “Do you doubt me, merciful mother? Was it so long ago that you stood shoulder to shoulder with the Pantheon before the Well of Souls? Have you forgotten so easily? The Amazons have not forgotten _you,_ in life, or in Death.”

And Martha watches, peeking out from around Hippolyta’s cloak like a child, as Hera bows her head, and then goes down, reluctantly bending her knee to the Ruler of the Underworld.

“Forgive me, my Queen. I spoke out of bitterness, when I should have spoken out of gratitude. I have not forgotten, nor will I.”

Hippolyta sighs, almost as if in frustration, but she graciously pulls the woman upward once more and reaches out to cup her cheeks.

“I pray that you will one day embrace hope as your redeemer, instead of rejecting it as your tormentor,” Hippolyta says quietly, and the strange woman scoffs at the earnest words, but her eyes are sad as she looks out across the sea.

“Every day I swim the narrow channel, Hippolyta, completing the task—the _punishment—_ you decreed for me.” Hera gently pushes aside Hippolyta’s hands and turns away, the wind brushing over her unbound hair and her simple cotton tunic as she faces the cold, endless stretch of water. “And every day… I am a little closer to reaching the shore.”

Hippolyta allows herself to smile at last, and she takes Martha’s hand, drawing her forward.

“Hera… allow me to share my blessings with you.”

And the goddess turns her bright eyes to Martha at last, as if noticing her for the first time.

“So this is the woman.”

“This is Martha Kent.”

Hera raises her head and stares down her nose at her. Her gaze is not friendly, but neither is it hostile as it sweeps over Martha’s trembling figure. She raises an eyebrow, as if taking in every detail of her appearance, from the graceful folds and embroidery of her Themysciran tunic, its deep purple color signifying her as a member of the royal family, her sturdy sandals, the flowers woven through her grey hair… the way Hippolyta clasps her hand, the ring on her own finger upturned to catch the dim morning light.

“So the gods are proud and strong and passionate?” Hera says abruptly, and just as suddenly as she’d noticed her, she returns to ignoring Martha once more. Hippolyta raises an eyebrow, but Hera tosses her head and flashes an almost cruel smile. “You forgot _jealous,_ my child.”

And then she turns away and is gone.

Martha blinks. But the only sound is that of the waves crashing against stone, the wind whistling over the cliffs, and Hippolyta rolling her eyes so far into the back of her head, Martha’s surprised they don’t stick there.

“...is that it?”

“Yes.”

And then she is leading a confused Martha back to the chariot, snapping the reins, and guiding the horses into the air once more.

“I… I don’t think she liked me,” Martha says in a small voice, watching as the rocky beach moves further and further away. They are not soaring through the air this time, instead, Hippolyta has directed the horses to skim the surface of the restless water, their hooves just barely kicking up sparkling droplets.

“The purpose was not for her to like you,” Hippolyta says shortly, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“Oh.” Martha thinks on this for a moment, then says almost to herself, “That would’ve been nice to know.”

And Hippolyta softens at last, turning and pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“I’m sorry, little one. You did beautifully. There is nothing more that could be done. _Now,”_ she goes on, releasing the reins and rising from her seat. “Let us hope these daughters of Olympus taste a little less bitter.”

And Martha shrinks back as the main island from before emerges like an enormous whale from the gloom. She knows she has nothing in the world to fear with the literal Goddess of Death at her side, but she is still a girl from Kansas, and she’s never… _really_ been this close to water, at least this close to the surface of such an enormous, presumably very _deep_ body of water. It’s different on the beach, where the water is clear enough to see the sandy bottom, two, three feet down. But this…

The horses rise higher, as if sensing her anxiety, and then they are landing in the middle of the arena they passed over earlier, and Hippolyta is looking at her, concern in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Martha, I did not think…”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Martha says, waving a dismissive hand, but she doesn’t pull away when Hippolyta seizes it in her own, and leads her onto the sand.

_“Welcome, My Queen.”_

Martha jumps at the sudden appearance of a newcomer. There is a figure of a woman standing before them, one hand petting the velvety noses of the horses, the other hand grasping at a longbow. She is smiling a wide, honest smile, and she laughs in delight as Hippolyta strolls forward to tightly embrace her.

“Do you not have scouts to watch for interlopers, or is the leader of the pack the first to divide the spoils-”

“We saw you pass by overhead,” the archer says, ignoring Hippolyta’s good-natured jab. “So we were correct in believing you paid a visit to-”

 _“I see my sister left you in one piece.”_ Another figure has joined them, sweeping forward to steal Hippolyta’s attention and embrace.

 _“English,_ Demeter, the Lady graces us with her presence,” the first woman says, and she steps out from around the horses to seize Martha’s hand. More and more women are swarming towards them, hurrying to greet their Queen, and it is now that Martha realizes that the archer and all of the others approaching are nude. This one wears a harness-type contraption that holds the quiver on her back, the knives at her waist, and supports her breasts, but otherwise, she is not wearing a single scrap of clothing, and judging the amount of skin-tones approaching in Martha’s peripheral vision, the rest of the goddesses are wearing even less.

“Welcome to New Olympus, Lady Martha. I am Artemis.”

Martha tries to respond, but her tongue is dry, stuck in her mouth, and she wisely forgoes speech altogether and opts for nodding her head and returning the firm handshake.

“You will have to forgive Hera. As we _all_ have had to do,” she adds in a loud, pointed whisper.

“Shame on you, Artemis, do you attack a woman who is not present to defend herself?”

A tall woman emerges from the crowd, just as beautiful as the others, but more stately, more striking, more _ruthless,_ somehow. Her eyes have the same sorrowful depths as Hippolyta, the same coldness that the artists depict so often in their paintings and sculptures.

“Well met, Lady. I am Athena.” She does not offer her hand, choosing instead to look Martha up and down in a manner similar to Hera, not bothering to hide her lack of enthusiasm. “So you are the chosen one of our champion, our deliver.”

“And she will do _well.”_

Yet another figure moves forward, and this time Martha is forced to look away lest she be blinded by sheer, insatiable beauty.

_Aphrodite… Goddess of Love and Pleasure._

“This one has mischief. And she has heart. How can you disparage that, sisters? Look at her, even now, faced with the Pantheon, she has eyes only for her lover.”

And Martha _is_ staring at Hippolyta, doing her very best to put on a brave face, even though she knows later tonight she’ll be berating a certain _Queen_ with some choice words for not preparing her to face half a dozen naked Greek Goddesses…

 _“Peace,_ sisters.” And Hippolyta is at her side in an instant as if summoned, turning away from a burly woman who had been asking after Diana. “Is this how you would welcome your Queen? ...shall we clear the stage so you may take turns _interrogating_ my beloved?”

The veiled accusation in those words does not go unnoticed, but the goddesses only exchange knowing smiles and wave them forward with laughter, leading them toward the city. Martha slowly lets her breath out at last when the bulk of them have moved away, and all at once she is aware of Hippolyta’s hand resting protectively against the small of her back.

_“Hippolyta…”_

And the Queen looks down at her, and her eyes are alight with joy. Martha stares up at her, then she allows herself a reluctant smile and looks away.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Martha says with a sigh. “Just a great story we’re going to tell our grandchildren...”

_Listen up, munchkins, let me tell you about this time when your grandmother took me to see HER mother, and then we stopped by an island full of naked women afterward…_

“We’re not going to be having any human sacrifices up there, are we?”

“We’d sooner sacrifice Demeter than we’d sacrifice you, human woman,” Artemis calls from across the arena, and Hippolyta waves an absent hand in the laughing goddess’ direction.

“Give me the word, Martha Kent, at any moment. We will leave at once,” Hippolyta says quietly, her voice earnest now as she kneels down and clasps her waist with strong hands.

“I don’t want to leave, I want to know that they’re not going to _kill_ me.”

“I would never let them kill you.”

“Oh, so only slightly maim?”

 _“Martha…”_ Hippolyta bends and kisses her shaking hands. And Martha closes her eyes as the Queen rests the side of her head against her beating heart. “You are mine... you are _mine.”_

Martha takes a deep breath, and then she kisses the top of Hippolyta’s head and draws her up to her feet.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Hippolyta asks, the modern word sounding so strange coming from her mouth, and Martha rolls her eyes, tugging at her lover’s hand.

“Okay, let’s _go.”_

And Hippolyta laughs, and in another moment, they’re both laughing together as they make their way towards the waiting Pantheon of goddesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ~~the longest chapter yet in this long-ass work~~!!!
> 
> Fun fact, I'm currently on the fence about including an extended smut scene in the next chapter, so please let me know your thoughts if you feel so inclined. :P
> 
> (Also, it's not really explicit here (or is it?), but Hera and Hippolyta were definitely a thing (but more of a Hippolyta/Atlanna level thing, not a really serious thing), and Hera's still mad that Hippolyta didn't give her a pass when she took over the Underworld, and she's doubly mad that Hippolyta's taken someone else as royal consort. It's... kind of incest-y but it's also the Greek Gods and WAY less gross than Hippolyta/Zeus, soooo...
> 
> Also Hera knows this story doesn't end well. She lived through Hades/Persephone, after all).


	16. Festival of the Goddesses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha stays for dinner.

A strain of longing comes over Hippolyta’s face as they step into the streets of New Olympus. In a way, it does remind Martha of their home, their city, the limestone, the climbing vines, the marble statues and carvings. But the air smells different, feels different, and the sky is bluer, and the trees are greener.

And Martha remembers the stories she’s been told of an island paradise, a place so similar and so different from New Themyscira...

 _Homesick, my child?_ Aphrodite asks as they make their way across cobblestone roads. But Hippolyta only gives the beautiful goddess a small smile and squeezes Martha’s hand, saying nothing.

They are led through the streets to the temple, where, apparently, the goddesses live. And in a light, open, airy room, the Pantheon invites their guests to relax upon the long, low couches, and strange, ghostlike nymphs offer them nectar and ambrosia. And for a while, Martha sits meekly beside Hippolyta, declining the Queen’s soft offer to have one of the servants bring in some of her “Man’s World” food they had brought with them in the chariot, listening as the goddesses talk in a chorus of musical voices about everything: the turbulent past, the quiet present, the predictable future.

The one called Demeter seems to be the oldest of the group, constantly interjecting bitter reminders of the days of old into the conversation. But every so often, she glances across the room at Martha’s timid face, and she smiles an odd, knowing smile at her. Hestia, a woman who is the very image of what Martha had imagined Io would look like- a muscular blacksmith marching to breakfast with nothing but a hammer in hand- slouches against the wall, arms crossed behind her head, foot twitching impatiently. Every so often, she and Athena exchange looks, as if they’re both itching to be rid of this quiet, timeless room. But the goddess of wisdom accepts no lesser distractions as she silently watches Hippolyta’s every move with hooded eyes (if Martha didn’t know how ruthless the Queen was on the battlefield, she would almost be afraid for her lover). Artemis and Aphrodite are the ones who keep the wine and conversation flowing, plying Hippolyta with questions of the Underworld, their various relatives and friends and enemies, the land of the living.

But the goddesses seem tireless, even as the sun begins its descent to the sea, and their speech lapses increasingly into Ancient Greek, the strange names and words dancing easily from their gilded tongues. Hippolyta, apparently noticing her human’s drooping eyes, pulls Martha into her lap, one hand wrapped around her waist, the other tenderly stroking her hair. And Martha leans back, tucking her head against a jawline that could cut glass, and she closes her eyes…

* * *

When she jerks awake, the goddesses are gone- that is, all of them except for the one lying behind her, one arm flung over her, fingers entangled with her own. The barest slivers of golden light are shining against the tapestries covering the walls. Martha brings the tangle of fingers up to her mouth and presses a kiss against the pale hand entwined with hers as she stares at the woven images. There is Athena emerging from the cloven head of Zeus, Aphrodite rising nude from the frothy sea, Hestia being swallowed whole by her father Cronus, Demeter scouring the earth and sky and sea for her lost daughter…

Soft lips tickle the back of Martha’s ear and she gives a soft moan.

_Hippolyta..._

_“Good morning.”_

And Martha gives a sigh of contentment, tugging that strong arm more tightly around her like a blanket.

“...is it morning?” she mumbled, yawning and blindly reaching behind her, feeling for hair, skin.

“No,” Hippolyta whispers. Wet teeth nibble lightly at her probing fingers and Martha gives a little yelp of surprise. “It is late afternoon.”

“Hrmmph.” Martha pulls back her hand and snuggles back against her cold lover, closing her eyes once more. “Were the naked goddesses angry that I fell asleep?”

“They thought it was beautiful.”

Martha twists her head around and gives the Queen a dubious look, but she only smiles down at her and kisses her cheek.

“You are beautiful when you sleep, Martha Kent.”

Martha scoffs, but she drops her head onto the pillow that is Hippolyta’s arm and allows herself a small smile.

“Well, I hope you shooed them all out before I started snoring.”

“You do not _snore,”_ Hippolyta says calmly, nuzzling her mousy hair. “Why are you so concerned of what they think of you?”

“Because they’re the _goddesses.”_

“And what do you think you are?”

“An old woman from Kansas.”

“...and my soon-to-be _wife.”_

“Right, an old woman from Kansas who’s marrying _way_ out of her league.”

And Hippolyta sighs, and, to Martha’s surprise, she doesn’t force her to roll over and face her, but she climbs _over_ her, graceful as a cat, and she kneels before her on the stone floor of this strangest of parlors.

 _“I want you,”_ the Queen whispers, her soft eyes as bright and blue as the stretch of sea gleaming just beyond the balcony. “I don’t think you understand how much I do.”

“Well, you _were_ giving me some mixed signals at the beginning there,” Martha says defiantly, but she’s teasing, and they both know it. “Putting me off for a year, telling me to _wait-”_

“Yes, but I believe what happened _after_ made up for it, _hmm?”_

“God, Hippolyta, you can’t just solve everything with sex,” Martha says, rolling her eyes, but barely suppressing a wide smile. Hippolyta raises a suggestive eyebrow at her, and Martha blushes, then seizes blindly the nearest pillow and tosses it over her own burning face.

“Oh, no.” Hippolyta’s fingers prod at the pillow and she grins at it shudders slightly from suppressed laughter. “My darling moon has disappeared? Whomever will I pleasure now?”

And Martha bites her lip to contain a giggle as she feels a silky blanket being pulled up over her body and pillow-covered head.

“I suppose… I have no choice, since I am an insatiable monster whose lust must be fed _hourly..._ I shall have to offer my services to the goddesses of Olympus- _”_

“Don’t you _dare,”_ Martha’s muffled voice comes up from the pile of bedding and Hippolyta laughs aloud.

“Oh, my love…” And Hippolyta draws back the blankets and pillow, revealing her lover’s flushed face. “You scared me.”

And Martha leans forward and kisses her, softly, sweetly, and Hippolyta kisses her back.

“I feel like a child, stumbling this way and that around these immortals,” Martha admits, a soft murmur against her lips, the first true confession of the afternoon. But Hippolyta kisses her again, silencing her.

“You are mine, Martha Kent... you needn't fear _anyone."_

* * *

Hippolyta asks if she wants to stay for dinner.

And Martha remembers the first time Jonathan brought her home, back when she was Martha Clark Fordman, the poor young widow whose in-law drama was the talk of town. Jessica Kent had clicked her tongue, tossed aside the potholders in her hands, and given her a warm hug that smelled of cookies and cheap perfume.

Martha doesn’t suppose anything like that is going to happen at this dinner, at this festival of the goddesses.

_You have nothing to prove, my darling. It’s only a meal._

But Martha’s gaze darts from goddess to goddess, watching as they lounge on their respective couches, each with a low table and overflowing platters of food arranged before them like offerings: roasted meats, seasoned fish with the heads and tails still attached, baskets of bread and cakes and fruit, plates of cool salads and cheeses, and _dozens_ of small bowls filled with sauces.

The goddesses do not talk during the meal. Martha is surprised that they mostly eat in silence, murmuring their thanks to the various gods and beings whose supervision allow such blessings upon their tables… there are prayers offered up to Demeter and Artemis for the harvest and the hunt, to Amphitrite for the bounty of the sea, and to Gaia, giver of all life. But again and again, the goddesses and nymphs attending and feasting with them murmur their thanks to the deity who blessed them with this paradise, this island of isolation away from the cruel grasp of the gods, away from the evils that plagued their immortal lives.

 _Thanks be to_ _the Queen..._

Hippolyta pays them no mind, preoccupied as she is with savoring her meal and whispering kisses over her self-conscious human’s skin. Martha doesn’t understand the lying down, or the silence over the meal, or the ghostly dryads and naiads who appear and disappear with the wind. But Hippolyta is beside her, and the food is good, although so strongly flavored, John Constantine must have had to visit Mount Olympus itself to bring these spices to the Underworld.

When the main courses are cleared away and jugs and goblets of wine are brought in, the naiads run, giggling hand-in-hand down the beach to the water, and the sounds of their silvery songs can be heard rising up from the restless waves. There is music, the throbbing of a harp coming from somewhere in the shadows, a lone, melancholy flute rising from somewhere amongst the trees, and Artemis heaves a sigh and flings her arms up over her head.

And then she begins to speak, her eyes closed, body stretched out and comfortable. The tale she tells is violent and seductive, full of chases in the moonlight, singing arrows, stolen kisses. Martha sips at her goblet of wine and listens quietly as the story tapers off, and Athena picks up the ragged ends, filling in the gaps, weaving in her own perspective as the goddess of wisdom, the strategizer, the warbringer. The goddesses are master orators, daughters of the long tradition of oral storytelling, perfecters of rhetoric and public speeches, and Martha lies there against soft cushions, mesmerized. The wine settles comfortably in her veins, and her mind and senses are alert, replenished from her afternoon rest.

Hestia speaks last, and despite being the eldest, the firstborn of Cronos, she is clearly the jokester, the comedian, and jester. The goddesses howl with laughter and throw half-drunk goblets in her direction as she tells increasingly raunchy stories of her numerous siblings, nieces, and nephews. Martha Clark Fordman might have bristled, scandalized at the shameless exploits of the gods, but the Martha lying here on this low couch, cuddling her cold goddess lover, and drinking warm wine has been in the Underworld for three years, and she has lived in New Themyscira for those years, and she has allowed the brazen freedom of the Amazons to wear her down. And so she sighs in relief as the witch in the story turns her attackers into pigs, laughs as a newborn god turns himself into a dolphin and promptly takes command of a fishing boat, and moans softly at the lush descriptions of Eros’ visits to Psyche.

The music grows louder, more intense as the night goes on, and at last, Artemis flings herself up from her couch and seizes Hestia’s hands.

_Enough with your claptrap, sister, let us dance!_

And the other goddesses rise to join them, weaving in and out of the crowd of nymphs and shadows, and somehow, Martha finds herself on her feet, hands grasping her lover’s forearms, and she’s dancing, laughing, singing, only stopping to seize at her wine goblet (it never seems to empty, no matter how long a draught she takes), and Hippolyta is laughing and singing along with her, and she realizes she’s never seen the Queen drunk before, she’s never even seen her tipsy, but here, among the goddesses, in this place of peace and safety, under the comforting blanket of the night, Martha realizes all at once that they are free- free from the chains and expectations and conventions of others, royal and ordinary, living and dead, human and Amazon.

The night wears on, and Martha stops to catch her breath, and finds herself kissing her lover upon the beach. The water is lapping up against their feet, soft and ticklish, and Martha’s breath is fast and heavy. Hippolyta is lying beneath her, her royal robe mussed, the rich fabric pushed off one shoulder to expose her pale skin to the moonlight, and her eyes are dancing. There is a sharp cry from further up the beach, and Martha raises her head in alarm, then quickly glances away once more.

“What is it?” Hippolyta murmurs, her long fingers teasing over the folds Martha’s own robe, brushing tantalizingly over her skin.

“They’re… they’re…” Martha stutters, her cheeks burning. And Hippolyta grins, presses a sloppy kiss to her lips, and pushes back her hair.

“Do you want to leave?”

And Martha shakes her head. Ghostly fingers are running up and down her back, over her bare legs. It’s a strange, intoxicating sensation, and somehow, she doesn’t mind, doesn’t pull away from the grasping hands of strangers. Hippolyta notices her distraction, and her lips curl into an amused smile, even as the nymphs press soft little kisses over her own skin.

“Tell me what you want.”

_All of this. Everything._

“You’re drunk,” Martha says reluctantly, reaching down to press a hand against her lover’s cheek.

“No, my darling… I am free.”

“Oh.” Martha raises Hippolyta’s chin, staring curiously into her eyes. “...I’ve just, I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Afraid is _one_ thing I’m feeling,” Martha says, trying to keep her voice cautious and even, but a giggle escapes her mouth, betraying her. Hippolyta smiles up at her, her eyes shining.

“Tell me, little one.”

Martha ducks her head and glances back at the figures surrounding them- shadows of myths dancing and lounging and caressing one another. Some of those nearby- Artemis, Aphrodite, Hestia- are watching them with marked interest, like tigers waiting to pounce. And Martha remembers that first morning, looking out that window, seeing her Queen for the first time, locked in combat with those Amazons as if she were fighting for her very life...

“I… I want to watch. I want to watch them. With you.”

Hippolyta’s eyes gleam at her words, but to her great credit, she pauses to take a closer look at her.

“Are you sure?”

_In the meantime, you can work on not canoodling other women in my dreams…_

“I’ll be right here, the whole time,” Martha promises. “I’ll… I’ll tell you when it’s too much. And you’ll tell me.”

And Hippolyta stares at Martha’s nervous but eager face for another moment, then she throws back her head, grinning.

“You will never cease to surprise me, Martha Kent.” But before Martha can answer, she raises her voice. _“_ _αδελφές_ _!”_

And all at once they are there, goddesses and nymphs and fairies appearing instantly at their side, in all their glorious, godly beauty, their faces hard with anticipation, adoration.

_Queen… our Queen..._

“Do whatever she tells you.”

Martha turns bright red at the casual command, at the way Hippolyta waves a lazy hand in her direction, at the sight of the goddesses turning as one to look expectantly at her. And Martha bends to press a tender kiss against those smiling lips… and then she raises her head and says in a soft but firm voice,

“Bring me some rope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! If you don't feel like reading a whole lot of smut, feel free to skip to chapter 20... you won't miss any of the plot. :P
> 
> Also, I'm sorry this act keeps getting extended, but these in-laws are infinitely more fun than Martha's family, so we're here for at least another chapter... 
> 
> ~~Martha sure learns quick doesn't she??~~
> 
> Also, I know the character development (of Martha going from Kansas mom to... whatever this is) feels a little abrupt, but we did have a lot of time gaps, and it is chapter 16 already, and Martha HAS fantasized about seeing Hippolyta with other women since literally her first day in New Themyscira, plus they're all super drunk, sooooo... let the orgy begin? :D


	17. A Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha has an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut ended up being even MORE extended than anticipated, so this will end up being a three-chapter extravaganza. ~~I told you not to let me do this~~.

Martha doesn’t know what she expects.

Violence, perhaps, judging the way tonight’s stories often drifted into gleeful brutality, or perhaps a frenzy similar to the dances of the Amazons upon the training field: rough, reckless, calculated, deadly; something bordering on cruel, something worthy of that uncomfortable term,  _ sadist. _

But she remembers the stories Hippolyta has told her of the Pantheon, of how they called her up from the sea, named her Queen over the resurrected souls, and taught her all that they knew: the art of the hunt, of warfare, of the home, of the fields, of leadership… and of pleasure. And Martha remembers shivering beneath wool blankets as Hippolyta whispered to her about how the most powerful goddesses of Olympus drew her into their arms, pleasuring her for days without end, teaching her all there was to know of the joys of the flesh…

Hestia has built a bonfire, and its warm light flickers and snaps across the sand. The stars and constellations are so bright, it is almost as if they have congregated over New Olympus, straining for a glimpse of this most sacred celebration of the goddesses of old. Hippolyta lounges comfortably over a silk sheet, arms stretched up over her head. Martha had allowed none of them to bind her, kneeling herself beside the trembling woman and brushing the lightest of kisses upon her lifeless pulse-points, before slipping the soft rope over her skin. Hestia had handed her a length of glowing light, and it buzzes with warmth against her palm, like it is feeding off of their heightened energy.

_ “Hippolyta…” _

The Queen sighs in contentment as the ropes tighten around her wrists, and she gazes up at Martha with a sly smile on her lips, patiently awaiting her judgement. 

“Color?”

And Hippolyta of Themyscira, a woman who very likely had never seen a stoplight until she wandered the concrete cities of Elysium, turns her head slightly to nip at Martha’s fingers.

“Green.”

And Martha bends and kisses her like there is no one else on this beach, like there isn’t a Pantheon of ancient goddesses, and dozens of powerful spirits of the earth and water all surrounding them, watching them. 

“Pleasure her, but do not let her come unless I give the word,” she orders when she pulls back, her eyes never leaving Hippolyta’s face. A low murmur of anticipation ripples across the crowd like the restless sea beside them, then Aphrodite herself kneels down, her red lips parting to reveal gleaming white teeth, and they closed tightly around the Queen’s robes, tearing them away, baring her magnificent body to the ravenous onlookers. 

_ Martha…  _

The goddesses descend, one by one, palms smoothing over Hippolyta’s skin, hands grasping at her muscles, mouths sucking at her breasts, eyes dark and blazing with lust and admiration… but the Queen says one name, and one name only, and Martha cradles her head in her lap, combing her fingers through golden hair, watching as her lover’s eyes glaze over, as she bites her lip, looks away, closes her eyes in a desperate attempt to keep her composure as the goddesses tease and caress her.

_ “It’s all right,”  _ Martha murmurs as Hippolyta’s back arches and a soft groan slips from her lips.  _ “It’s all right. Just relax, darling, we have all night.” _

_ “Kiss me. Please.” _

And Martha complies, and it is a long kiss, an intoxicating kiss, a kiss that tastes of wine and arousal... and she can feel the precise moment that Artemis bends down between Hippolyta’s legs, slides those trembling thighs over her broad archer shoulders, and drags her tongue over her slick opening. Hippolyta jerks, as if in shock, and Martha looks up at her face, with her wide eyes and open mouth and wordless little gasps.

_ Oh, Hippolyta… _

And she’s not the only one. The goddesses murmur almost as one at the sight of their Queen trembling in the relentless throes of pleasure that is just  _ barely _ within reach.

_ “Hippolyta, my precious by-and-by…”  _ Aphrodite sighs, her hands busy caressing a heavy breast, teasing her erect nipple. Hippolyta moans in response as the goddesses double down on their efforts, her arms beginning to strain plaintively against the ropes as she pushes her hips forward, pushing herself deeper, faster against Artemis’ skilled mouth.

_ “Champion… our valiant champion.”  _ It is Athena this time, her voice soothing, completely different than her harsh, commanding tone from earlier. She has claimed Hippolyta’s other breast with her mouth, her wet tongue tracing patterns around her areola, over her pebbled nipple. The other goddesses are bent over her, nuzzling her belly, stroking her long legs, kissing her feet, caressing every inch of her skin, all hands and lips and tongues and wine. Artemis’ head is bobbing between her legs, her hands gripping hard enough at her thighs to leave bruises. 

_ “Please…”  _

And Martha tears her eyes away from the glorious sight of the goddesses crawling over her lover’s body, and focuses on Hippolyta’s face. Her eyes are half closed with lust, her teeth clenched, her hands balled tightly into fists. And Martha smiles as a shivers of delight that runs through her at the soft plea.

It’s the first time she’s ever heard Hippolyta beg.

_ “Be patient, Hippolyta,” _ she whispers, unable to keep the delight out of her voice. The Queen throws back her head and thrashes in response, and Martha grins. 

_ “Harder,”  _ she orders casually over her shoulder, and judging the way Hippolyta shrieks, the goddesses obey her. Her hands are gripping at the rope now, as if to tear the very knots apart, but the handiwork of Hestia holds true, and the Queen is unable to free herself, unable to get the relief, the pleasure she so desperately needs.

_ “Please, I cannot… I… I—” _

“You are a goddess, Hippolyta,” Martha Kent murmurs over her. _ “You will do as you are told.” _

And she does, struggling valiantly for several minutes… or perhaps several hours. The dryads and naiads and oceanids creep forward with pitchers of wine, and they bow low as they present their offerings to their gods. And when they pass the cups up to her, Martha dips her fingers into the rich pools of deep red and creamy gold, and then lowers her hand to her lover’s lips, letting the Queen suck the intoxicating nectar from her skin.

_ Do you like this?  _ she asks again and again, and again and again Hippolyta gives a needy groan of contentment, runs her eager tongue over the pads of her fingers one last time, and gazes up at her with begging eyes.

_ Yes. _

And Martha shivers, then turns away, signaling for the goddesses to increase their efforts. Already, they are beginning to gasp and sigh, seeking relief themselves, and Martha can see the ghostly hands of the nymphs caressing their moving bodies. She can feel them touching her own living skin. 

_ “She is strong, Lady Martha. She will wait for your command, despite all our efforts.” _

Martha lets out a distracted sigh in response as soft hands slip over her own skin, and she looks down at her lover’s tormented face.

“...is this true?”

And Hippolyta shoots a glare at the grinning goddesses and raises her chin, her legs kicking out against immortal flesh to no avail.

“Why….  _ don’t  _ you find out?” she challenges, with just the barest gasp of desire betraying her. Martha bends and brushes her nose against hers, as if deep in thought, then she replies, low and breathy, 

“Very well.”

And Hippolyta’s eyes are gleaming as Martha kisses her forehead.

“I will allow each of them to try their best against you.”

“Very well,” Hippolyta murmurs promptly, a slight edge of teasing in her voice, as if  _ she  _ were the one calling the shots and making the decisions on how this night will turn out. Martha frowns, but her eyes are shining and she knows it.

“I’m not finished,” she scolds, pressing the softest of kisses against her Queen’s smirking mouth. “I will  _ allow _ each of them to try their best against you… and if you prevail to the end,  _ you _ will let me do that thing you never let me do.”

Hippolyta nudges her head with her own, frowning.

“...you are not allowed to do that.”

“I’ll be careful,” Martha promises, reaching up to grasp at her bound hands, brushing her fingers over the golden rope.  _ “Please, _ my darling, my blazing sun that gives my dark world warmth and light and meaning…”

And Hippolyta stares up at her, her face surprisingly conflicted in spite of the fact that five of the most beautiful goddesses of Olympus, and dozens of nymphs are ravaging her body, then she gives a short nod and says sternly,

_ “Very _ careful.”

Martha nods solemnly, biting her lip to suppress a smile, and Hippolyta rolls her eyes, then raises her head.

_ “Ναϊάδες… _ bring the Lady some water.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact I: This chapter is short because the next one is 3600 words. -.- (Hey, five goddesses is a lot of goddesses to ~~wear out~~ go through!).
> 
> Fun Fact II: I only wrote this whole segment because of peer pressure, so I hope y'all are proud of yourselves. :D
> 
> Fun Fact III: Thanks for reading!! The next chapter will be up tomorrow, and a final chapter of smut will be up in time for Sinday.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: After this, I'm not writing any more smut until like... Chapter 29. :P


	18. The Feast of Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha experiences the fabled "Feast of Five" with the original Five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There's a whole lot of kinkiness going on in this chapter...

The goddesses are insatiable.

Hestia steps up first, and her touch is gentle as she loosens the bonds from Hippolyta’s wrists. And Martha watches, her mouth falling open, as she smoothes the rope between her palms. It glows with golden light, and in its place, a silky length of cloth forms.

She kneels and murmurs in Hippolyta’s ear, the petition sounding surprisingly humble. The Ancient Greek translation is something similar to, _If it pleases Your Majesty,_ and the Queen nods. Hestia carefully binds the golden cloth over her eyes, and then she smiles, leaning back on her heels.

“I would gag you as well, Hippolyta, but it has been so long since I have heard your beautiful voice. I want to savor every gasp, every sigh, every plea.”

“Then you’d best _earn_ them, Hestia,” the sightless Queen replies smoothly, and Hestia lets out a cackle.

“Oh, Hippolyta, _Hippolyta…”_

And then there is a length of ordinary rope in her hand, soft and supple, and she whispers the lightest of kisses over Hippolyta’s shoulder, trailing the rope across her skin in the wake of her lips. Martha hears Athena give a low murmur of approval as Hestia sets to work, taking her time, humming quietly to herself as her hands weave the ropes together across Hippolyta’s skin. And Martha stares wide-eyed as the pattern begins to take shape upon the canvas that is the Queen’s body—it is as if the ropes are outlining her muscles, her veins, her bones. The design reminds Martha of the lacy doilies her grandmother used to crochet: they were completely useless and impractical, meant for decoration only, but the patterns were so beautiful and delicate, like snowflakes, or spiderwebs, each loop supporting its neighbor, each knot precise and vital in its place.

Hestia has bound Hippolyta’s arms behind her back, in a manner similar to how Martha had been bound on their first night together, but the goddess does not stop there. The Queen’s body is lifted up, ankles joined expertly to her wrists with a short length of braided rope, showing off her _damningly_ flexible limbs. Hestia whispers a final note of encouragement, then steps away. And the crowd of watching women gasps as the web of loose ends twist together above the Queen’s suspended figure like the woven trunk of a tree, leaving Hippolyta’s body cocooned at its roots. It is beautiful, exotic, _sensual—_

And then Hestia begins to touch her.

* * *

The goddesses are relentless.

The sun has risen and nearly fallen once more before Hestia concedes. She is lying beneath Hippolyta’s suspended body, nose to nose, eyes gazing into one another's. Hestia’s thick arms are crossed underneath her head, and she is smiling a tender smile, even as her thigh rocks between the Queen’s spread legs in a quiet, last-ditch effort to bring her to ecstasy.

It has been a long, long night and day filled with the cries of a determined Queen and her even more determined captor. But try as she may, Hestia can draw nothing more than violent trembling and delicious moans from her. And before the sun kisses the surface of the sea, the goddess of the hearth shakes her head, crawls out from underneath the neat tangle of ropes, and bows low.

_“My Queen…”_ But she says no more than that, and in an instant, the ropes disappear. A lesser being might have crumpled to the ground, exhausted, limbs sore and lifeless—but the Queen of the Amazons steps down like the goddess she is, and she raises her head, her blindfolded eyes looking steadily across the sea of faces to Athena’s waiting figure.

_“Will you duel blind, Your Majesty?”_ Athena says solemnly, her sword already hefted up into her hands.

_“As does justice,”_ Hippolyta replies calmly, as if she hadn’t just spent the better part of twenty hours shaking in the throes of an orgasm she refused to let herself experience.

Athena smiles a grim smile, then nods impatiently. And Martha scrambles to her feet, apologizing profusely as she snatches the sword from the Queen’s pile of discarded clothing.

“Martha Kent,” Hippolyta murmurs as she gingerly lays the hilt against her lover’s palm. “My darling, how do you fare?”

“I fare fine,” Martha replies cheekily, and she stands on her tiptoes to give those smiling lips a kiss. “I fare more than fine, I—I hope you don’t mind…”

The intensity of the groaning goddesses, the relentless touches of the nymphs… Martha still feels woozy with pleasure, and she knows it’s not just from her experience as a passive bystander.

“I expected nothing less,” Hippolyta says smugly, and Martha’s guilt disappears in an instant. “Let us put on a show for you, little moon, _hmm?”_

And Martha bites back a half-hearted protest mixed with a plea to _be_ _careful,_ and then the two goddesses are circling one another, feet planted in both sea and sand, as if they know they are at their strongest when they draw from the powers of _all_ their patrons.

The ensuing battle is magnificent, spectacular, the stuff of legends. The clashing blades throw showers of sparks as the sun sinks into the sea, and both warriors move with uncanny grace, their thrusts precise, deadly, despite Hippolyta’s blindness. Athena is smiling broadly for the first time since Martha stepped foot on this island, clearly delighted at battling a worthy opponent for once. And Hippolyta, the woman who can easily deflect the attacks of half a dozen Amazons at once, is clearly in her element, parrying, blocking, ducking, kicking, punching, charging; it’s as if every moment was choreographed and perfectly executed, and she does not seem disadvantaged in the least by Hestia’s blindfold, in fact, it seems to have sharpened her other senses, and here, on this dark beach, she moves like a shadow, snapping forward and back, ducking Athena’s blows, seizing her arm and throwing her down, surprising her with a vicious kick as she scrambles to her feet, sidestepping and leaping up into the air as the goddess of wisdom’s blade falls…

In time, the steel is forgotten, and the women wrestle with their fists, with their bodies, with their limbs, but it is nothing like the wrestling of Earth, or the comical catfights on TV: it is violent and brutal, but it is also noble, graceful, and strangely beautiful. They go back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, until at last, Athena leaps forward, pinning Hippolyta roughly onto the wet sand, one hand grasping at her golden hair, the other arm pressed hard against her throat.

_“Submit.”_

_“Never.”_

_“Submit!”_

_“Never!”_

This declaration is coupled with wet spittle hitting Athena’s royal face, and the goddess’ eyes flash with something that is not quite convincingly rage.

_“You…”_

And in another moment, the Queen is viciously flipped over, shoved face-first in the sand, and a cold hand rises and slaps soundly across her bare rear.

“ _Submit!”_

The terrible command echoes across the water, but Hippolyta only turns and murmurs something, her voice soft and gentle, and Athena’s head rises at once, her eyes searching out Martha’s in the crowd. She’s scowling beneath a helmet that is slightly askew, but she seems to swallow her pride, and she says abruptly,

“Color?”

The word sounds strange in her Ancient Greek mouth. Martha opens hers, but it is dry, nervous, and it takes her a few tries to stutter,

“Y—Yellow.”

She’s not afraid of Athena hurting the Queen. She knows the invulnerable woman well enough by now to know nothing can harm her. But there’s something lingering in the back of her mind, another warrior, another conversation…

_The rules of war do not belong in times of peace…_

And somehow, she is not ready.

Not yet ready to see her lover as she had been portrayed in that terrible hall of paintings and sculptures: captured, belittled, forced into submission, humiliation.

“You do not like my flavor, little human?” Athena says, but her tone is less threatening and more ironic. “Perhaps Artemis’ skills will better suit your tastes.”

And the goddess of the hunt strolls forward at a nod from her sister, and together, they lift the Queen to her knees, taking care to lovingly brush the sand from her skin.

_“A worthy hunt,”_ Artemis says casually, hefting Hippolyta’s body over her shoulder and carrying her up the beach toward the bonfire. A flurry of giggling dryads rush forward, their slender, knotty hands holding bowls of oil, lengths of rope, long, narrow logs that look suspiciously like spits, an enormous roasting pan big enough for several animal carcasses…

And to Martha’s surprise, the other goddesses and several nymphs rise and join the festivities, kneeling before Artemis, allowing Athena to bind their wrists behind their backs.

“No, My Lady, do not—it is for you,” one of the shimmering nereids says, poking its head nervously out of the sea, seemingly in awe at addressing the Queen’s consort.

_Poor thing must be drunk,_ Martha thinks, but the message is clear: she is not to participate in their bizarre ritual, only watch.

And watch she does, as the women are trussed as if they were chickens, slathered in oil, and laid out on the pan, as if some horrific giant had ordered an immortal pie… Martha watches, her heart pounding in her throat as they draw over the kneeling goddesses some reedy crust-like cover, and-

“They’re not going to _cook_ them, are they?” Martha gasps, her hand shooting out to grasp the woody arm of some unfortunate nymph.

“Nay, Lady. Have no fear,” the creature replies gamely, and then they are all rising, crowing, singing, dancing, and the dish is hefted up onto ghostly hands, and they are carrying it up the beach, toward the temple.

“Come, Martha Kent!” Artemis calls in a sing-song voice, waving for her to join them. Martha tentatively steps forward, her hands shaking, and Artemis slings an arm around her shoulders.

“Are you frightened, Lady? Of _my_ festival?” she asks, her broad smile doing nothing to give conviction to her overly offended tone.

“Please… don’t hurt her,” Martha says nervously, eying the swarm of gleeful nymphs, the swaying pan. Artemis lets out a loud laugh, but she turns to her, eyes twinkling, and says in a quieter voice,

“Have no fear. We will not even _slightly maim_ her.”

* * *

The goddesses are hungry.

When the dish containing the most powerful rulers of Olympus is brought into the temple, wild dancing ensues. And this time, Martha is encouraged to participate, to jump and wave her arms and sing at the top of her voice. And slowly, her earlier apprehension begins to abate. It is a celebration, albeit a celebration unlike any other Martha has experienced, but a celebration nonetheless: a festival worthy of the goddess of the hunt.

In time, Artemis herself steps up, a broadsword in hand, and she cuts open the pie. Hestia jumps out first, laughing and beaming, and when her bonds are severed, she joins the dance, seizing hands with the nearest dryad. And then the rest emerge, like clowns from a phone booth, like monkeys from a barrel, and then—

It’s as if time stops as Hippolyta appears, her muscles gleaming with oil, her wrists still bound in front of her, and her eyes still blindfolded with golden cloth…

And Artemis leaps forward with a shout of joy, pulls her into a tight embrace, and kisses her full on the mouth.

It’s the first time all night that a woman other than Martha has kissed her.

A cry of protest wells in her throat, but she swallows it back, watching as Athena approaches the Queen from behind, pushes aside Hippolyta’s thick hair, and presses insistent kisses in a line across her back, drawing her arms up over her head. Artemis is kneeling now, burying her face between her legs, wasting no time with foreplay, and Hippolyta is moaning loudly, her bound hands grasping helplessly at the back of Athena’s head and neck. And the goddess of wisdom proves that she is talented in areas other than battle, lowering her head to bite the Queen’s neck, her strong hands slipping around her ribs, and then moving up to cup and tease her breasts. It’s such a _perfect_ image, her goddess lover being serviced by these _other_ goddesses, Martha has to bite her tongue to keep herself from groaning in jealousy (or perhaps something more wanton then jealousy), but a soft sound keeps her from exploding in envious rage.

_Martha..._

It is her name.

It’s the sound of her name, whispered, sighed, moaned between Athena’s caresses and Artemis’ licks—there, caught between the embrace of two goddesses, the Queen of the Amazons is calling out to _her._

Martha feels her cheeks turning bright red. And then her whole body. And then...

_“Oh,_ Hippolyta, Hippolyta, _Hippolyta…”_

* * *

The goddesses are unsuccessful.

Athena and Artemis service their Queen in every position and with every type of contraption imaginable, taking full advantage of her flexibility and invulnerability, and yet, they fall away at last, failing to bring her up to ecstasy despite their best efforts.

Martha cannot say the same. The nymphs have impossibly soft lips, and their hands are so skilled.. and coupled with Hippolyta crying out her name to every corner of this timeless island...

The temple has gone quiet, and Martha raises her head, thinking for a moment that it is over, that the goddesses have exhausted their talents at last. But all at once she is aware of Demeter sweeping forward, and her demeanor is… different.

Hippolyta allows the woman to untie her wrists and spread them wide, and they murmur amicably to one another as she does the same to her legs, until she is spread-eagle. It seems as if they are bartering, laying the groundwork, the rules. And Demeter takes extra precautions that the others do not: ensuing that the pallet beneath Hippolyta’s body is comfortable, that the ropes are not tied too tightly, that there is nothing within a good two feet of where they are.

And then she snaps her fingers, and Martha realizes at last that each of the goddesses are attended to by different groups of nymphs: Artemis is served by the green, gnarly, and earthly dryads, Athena and Aphrodite by the oceanids and nereids, Hestia by the spirits of stone and fire, and Demeter by the dryads of the fields. They shuffle forward with their offerings, and Demeter lays each gift at her side, neat as a row of seeds.

_“Are you ready, My Queen?”_

Hippolyta eyes the shaft of wheat in the goddess’ hand, shifts slightly as if to brace herself, and then gives a short nod. And then Demeter bends and proceeds to send the Queen into a fit of hysterical laughter and protests, teasing her skin with reeds and feathers and her fingers, and her own, crooning _voice..._

_“Oh, Hippolyta, you’re out of practice, dear one… But you’ve made this so enjoyable for me, we no longer need to stop for you to catch your breath, do you remember…? Hmm, no, I don’t think so, they’re all enjoying this too much for us to stop, we cannot disappoint them, and you’re enjoying this too, aren’t you, pretty girl? Oh, Hera, I forgot how beautiful you look when you struggle… no, I won’t let you go. Your sisters aren’t going to rescue you either, they’re too busy touching themselves—where do you think you’re going? You don’t like this? Well, we can try something else, then, do you like THIS—”_

And Martha watches in stunned silence as the Queen thrashes and squirms, desperately trying to get away from Demeter’s cruel hands, but the torment is relentless, gleeful, and inescapable.

_Gods, Hippolyta, oh gods, what is wrong with you, what in the name of all that is good is wrong with—_

“All well, human?”

Martha jumps out of her skin at Aphrodite’s soft voice, her gentle hand on her bare arm.

“I… I don’t know.”

Aphrodite peers down at her, then glances back to where the main event is happening.

“It is an act, Martha Kent, an act of submission, the surrender of control. Do not think for a moment that she could not break from those bonds. And do not think that she could not endure even greater torment without a single movement.”

“I know, I just—it feels weird… like I shouldn’t be enjoying this.”

“Why not? _She_ is.”

And with that, the Goddess of Pleasure flounces away, gone to join her sisters as they roll around on this most sacred of floors… and Martha glances back to where Hippolyta is begging for mercy, begging as if her life—if she had such a thing—depended on it…

And Martha shivers, and shivers again.

Her brain is telling her that this is wrong, that this is fundamentally wrong, that _stop_ should mean _stop,_ and _no_ should mean _no,_ and yet... she knows Aphrodite is right: she can hear the pleasure in Hippolyta’s voice, the throaty lust, the desire for _more—_

Martha lets out a groan and slips her hand between her own legs. The nymphs catch her as she falls back, and she resigns herself to her own surrender.

* * *

_“Aphrodite!”_

Martha jerks out of the haze of pleasure, all at once aware of her surroundings. Cold marble floor. Stone pillars. Statues. Ghost-things. Goddesses. Hippolyta...

It’s over.

_How long has it been?_

The temple is quiet once more, except for the echo of Demeter calling loudly to her niece as she tosses aside her diabolic tools in defeat.

_“Bring the Lady up with you. The Queen wants a word.”_

* * *

“Martha Kent…”

And Martha reaches out and traces a finger along Hippolyta’s trembling lips.

“This has been quite a show,” she says ruefully.

“Are you well, my love? I did not think to ask—”

“Aphrodite did. She explained to me that you weird people love weird things. I’m fine,” Martha murmurs, bending down and kissing a mouth that tastes like nectar.

“Carefully, carefully—” Hippolyta warns, turning her head away, and Martha rolls her eyes.

“What? What will the Furies do if I taste your pleasure, Hippolyta? Kill me?”

“They will take you away from me, Martha Kent, you know this,” Hippolyta says sternly, teeth nipping at Martha’s fingers. “Do you still want—or have you…?”

“I’ve only been waiting for what has probably been a _week,_ Hippolyta,” Martha huffs, but she traces her wet fingers over her lover’s skin, and her touch is gentle. “Don’t back out on me now, darling.”

The Queen rests her cheek against the back of Martha’s hand for a moment, then she relents.

“Very well. Send Aphrodite to my side before I change my mind.”

* * *

This time the temple stays quiet. The goddesses and nymphs sit in silence as the Goddess of Love steps forward and gathers Hippolyta’s limp body up into her arms.

_My Queen…_

The first thing she does is bathe her.

And Hippolyta sighs in pleasure as the hot, fragrant water laps over her skin, as the steam rises up around her flushed body. Aphrodite accepts the gifts from her nymphs with murmured thanks, and then they begin to sing softly as their patron caresses the sweat and sand and dirt and salt water and bodily fluids away from Hippolyta’s skin. It’s much less sexual than Martha would have expected, and much more _sensual…_

When every inch of Hippolyta’s skin has been scrubbed clean, Aphrodite takes down her hair, pouring hot water over those glorious curls, and massaging her fingers over her scalp. Hippolyta moans, inclining her head toward her hands…

“Hippolyta… my precious child, you are so beautiful.”

After a week of hearing so much Ancient Greek from the mouths of these goddesses, it is strange to hear English being spoken between them…

But all at once Martha realizes why Aphrodite made such an odd choice: it is because _she_ speaks English, as did her parents, and her parents’ parents… it is the language of Martha’s people, and the language that Hippolyta associates with _her,_ the woman whom she loves, the woman who gives her the most pleasure…

Martha lets out a quiet moan as Hippolyta is led, dripping, from the bath, and Aphrodite dries her with a soft towel (although she dries her hair with a quick breath), and then she gently lays her down upon the gilded altar in the center of the room.

_“The Lady waits for you. The Lady longs for you,”_ the nymphs are singing, their silvery voices peaceful and holy as they hand Aphrodite a deep bowl of scented oil.

And somewhere in the back of Martha’s head, she remembers… she remembers the Amazons leading her from the courtyard, singing these very words, bathing and preparing her in this very manner, but instead of singing of her impending union with _The Lady,_ they were singing the praises of _The Queen…_ singing as they prepared her for the Feast of Aphrodite…

_“The Lady is pleased with you. The Lady will pleasure you.”_

And Hippolyta shivers as Aphrodite generously pours the oil over her skin, its silky sheen mixed with the scent of sweet hyacinths _(how did they know?),_ and the quiet figures surrounding them begin to shift, murmur to themselves as Aphrodite spreads the oil across Hippolyta’s skin, her palms slipping over flesh and bone.

“Oh, Hippolyta, my love, my precious by-and-by… I am so proud of you, my child.”

Aphrodite’s voice cracks on the last syllable, and she leans down and kisses her. A simple kiss. A loving kiss. Hippolyta is already trembling, as Martha had been on that night… as Martha is now.

The goddess draws a silk sheet up over Hippolyta’s gleaming body, then she steps away and turns expectantly to the dark room.

“Martha Kent… come forth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: If you feel like reading some _normal_ Marlyta, please check out the amazing miss_belivet's "sunrising"! It's the best!
> 
> Fun Fact II: Thanks for reading!! You made it to the end! I just wanted to get this chapter out before my busy Saturday, but I WILL get to review replies tonight! :D
> 
> Fun Fact III: I didn't do a great job describing the bondage up there, but do check out Garth Knight's Shibari art if you're into that.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Artemis' festival is CANON and ~~WEIRD~~ I refuse to judge whatever it was Marston was trying to do with that pie scene.


	19. Veridis Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first time for everything.

Martha doesn’t uncover her right away.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’s reminded of morgue scenes from movies: the sheet-draped corpses, the grim, impatient detectives, the off-kilter morticians…

Somehow, a scene like that would seem less strange than the one before her now, with her still, waiting lover, the solemn goddess of love, the watching crowd.

Martha reaches out a trembling hand and runs her fingertips over the slope of Hippolyta’s body. Her figure remains cold, motionless, and if Martha didn’t know any better, she’d think there would only be a dead Queen staring back at her when she lifts the sheet… pale and lifeless and bloody, as she had been in the House of Mystery, all those years ago.

_ “Hippolyta…” _

Saying her name is almost as natural as breathing at this point, as if every time she exhales, that beautiful name slips from her lips as well. The figure does not move, and Martha smooths the sheet and bends down to meet the faint outline of her Queen’s lips with her own.

_ “Hippolyta.” _

The silk-covered lips just barely move against hers, and she smiles. So she’s  _ not _ dead. 

Well.

Martha impatiently pushes away the intrusion of mortuaries and corpses and technicalities, and gingerly sits down on the edge of the altar of Aphrodite, her back to the crowd, to the body. And for a moment, she simply stares off into the darkness, into the shadowed halls of this hallowed temple. Hippolyta doesn’t move. Nothing moves, except the soft breath of the sea wind through the trees outside, the brush of the leaves and pebbles against cobblestone roads.

“Hippolyta?”

The woman does not answer, but a cold hand creeps out from beneath the sheet and rests gently on Martha’s knee.

_ Funny, it’s never like this in the movies. Dead hands and all—I should be running away screaming by now… _

“If you were alive... how fast would your heart be beating right now?”

Martha can almost hear Hippolyta’s indulgent smile at the innocent question, and she tries to frown, but she can only let out a little gasp as the hand against her knee moves up to her chest, two fingers drumming a rapid beat against her heart.

“Come  _ on…”  _ she sighs at her lovers antics.  _ No one’s heart can beat that fast without having a heart attack.  _ But she’s smiling as that hand impatiently grasps at her collar and tugs. 

“Be patient, impatient one. God knows you’ve made  _ me  _ be patient.”

But Martha slips off the edge of the altar and pulls back the sheet at last. Hippolyta’s eyes are still blindfolded (Martha touches the golden cloth. It’s as smooth and silky as water), and her skin is warmer than Martha’s ever seen it, flushed either from her hot bath, or from the last several days of relentless sex.

_ “My Queen…”  _ For some reason, she feels like there should be a script for this.  _ I enter you, Hippolyta, in body and in mind, to have and to hold, for your pleasure and mine…  _ or something similar. But there is nothing, nothing but her standing before her waiting lover. “Tell me with your words, Hippolyta. Tell me that you want me.”

Those soft lips twitch upwards, and all at once, the Queen is sitting up, the silk sheet falling in crumpled waves around her waist, and strong arms slide around Martha’s shoulders.

_ “God,  _ Hippolyta-”

_ “Shush, little one…”  _ Hippolyta’s lips are on hers now, and her kiss is bruising. Martha stumbles back, but Hippolyta does not let up, and she resigns herself to wobbling off-balance while this dead goddess kisses her like she’s trying to kill her.

_ “Hippolyta!”  _ Martha finally gets out, and the Queen lets her breathe at last, pulling away only to press their cheeks together. And her grip is tight around her as she pulls her close and murmurs low and heavy in her ear,

_ “I want you to fuck me, and fuck me hard.” _

Martha Kent turns bright red, as if she’d been drenched in a bucket of dye, then she’s ripping the rest of the sheet away, throwing it off towards the forgotten crowd. Hippolyta’s lips smirk at her, and Martha swallows hard, then rolls up her sleeves and climbs onto the altar.

Aphrodite,  _ thank the gods, _ had slipped a thick cushion beneath Hippolyta’s hips, and Martha crawls forward, awkwardly slinging those toned legs over her shoulders. She’s certain that, if it weren’t for the wine she’d been drinking all week, and the strange, rejuvenating air of the Underworld, her old bones would never be able to manage this…

A light touch on her shoulder both startles her and floods her with relief: it is Aphrodite, looming in the background, her long fingers tucking Martha’s hair back behind her ears.

_ Help me, I don’t know what I’m doing,  _ she wants to beg, but that seems rather absurd, coming from the woman who’s spent the last two years sleeping with the goddess who is apparently the biggest catch of the land…

_ “Kiss her.” _

Aphrodite’s voice is soft and calm and... echoing inside Martha’s mind. She wants to twist around and fall on her knees, hands clasped in thanksgiving, but she forces herself to focus, scooches forward, and planting little kisses against the smooth insides of Hippolyta’s thighs. The soft down covering her womanhood tickles her face, and she can’t help but let out a giggle. Hippolyta’s legs tighten slightly against her back, and Martha resists the urge to reassure her that she’s not laughing at  _ her— _

And then she feels a soft wetness against her chin, and she freezes.

_ Hippolyta… _

She’s touched her before, in their bedroom, Martha anxiously pressing her fingers into her, asking over and over,  _ Is this all right? Does this feel right?  _ But despite begging multiple times, Hippolyta has never allowed her head to dip any lower than her belly, never allowed her to bring her wet fingers up for a taste.

And now, barely daring to hope, Martha opens her mouth, and she runs her tongue from the base of her opening up to the hood of her clit. The shiver that she feels running through Hippolyta’s body makes her gasp with delight, and her  _ taste... _

_ Christ, Hippolyta, nothing coming out of a person should taste this good… _

Maybe it’s a good thing that her mouth is busy, sparing them both from her awkward thoughts. Martha shakes her head and goes to pry her wider with her fingers, to reveal more of her clit, to lavish her with everything she has, but Aphrodite tugs lightly on her cloak, holding her back.

_ “Let her come to you.” _

And Martha obeys without question, letting her tongue dip back down to the small pool of wetness, patiently licking up and down the sides of her folds. Hippolyta’s shivering grows more violent by the second, and Martha tries not to smile as her hips begins to jerk, reacting to her touch.

_ “Yes… now push harder against her. Let her feel you.” _

And Martha does as she’s told, pushing her tongue forward into her. She’s not nearly as skilled at this as Hippolyta… but no one would ever know, judging the way the Queen is thrusting against her. Martha can hear her beginning to whimper, like a desperate little animal. In all their time here in this neverending sex marathon, Hippolyta has been all moans and groans and screams—but not for a single moment has she sounded as vulnerable and needy as she does now… 

Martha jerks at the feeling of hands grasping her hair, tugging her upward. Her tongue drags over Hippolyta’s cunt along with her head, and the Queen lets out a shriek. Martha closes her mouth for a second, intending to collect herself and take a breath before plunging in once more, but Aphrodite’s hand is on the back of her neck in an instant, pulling her aside, and a goblet of water is shoved into her face.

_ “Wash.” _

Martha groans in irritation, but she spits and obediently rinses out her mouth.

“I really don’t think this is necessar—”

_ “Quiet,  _ little one, you _ promised—”  _ Hippolyta’s gasping voice comes up from where her head is thrown against the back of the altar, but Aphrodite interrupts, her prim voice saying something that sounds suspiciously like,

_ Just stay on your back and enjoy yourself, woman. _

Martha chokes and spits a mouthful of water directly into Aphrodite’s face for daring to speak to her Queen in that way, then she returns to eating out her lover with renewed vigor. This part, at least, she knows well enough from her own experience of Hippolyta doing it to her as many times as she has over the years… 

Hippolyta cries out as Martha gives her tiny little licks. Testing. Experimenting. She tightens her grip on Martha’s hair as she begins to press her tongue harder against her. It’s not as hard as Hestia’s thigh, or as fast as that monstrous dildo Athena and Artemis had been using, but it is her, it is  _ her, _ herself, Martha Kent, the woman who’s loved her since the moment they laid eyes on each other... and as she closes her lips over her clit and begins to suck, Hippolyta screams as if she’s never felt such raw pleasure before in her  _ life…  _

Or death.

* * *

Martha tires easily.

In hindsight, the fact that she manages to bring her lover up to ecstasy more times than she can count on her fingers is astonishing, but in light of the hours upon  _ hours  _ that these goddesses have gone on and on and on… it feels inadequate.

But Hippolyta collapses at last, the tangled shreds of the silk sheet still gripped in her fists, and Martha hears her soft moan through the haze.

_ “Come here.” _

And Martha crawls up her lover’s body, feeling timid all of a sudden.

_ “Clean yourself.” _

Hippolyta’s voice is emotionless, and Martha hastens to seize the somehow still-full goblet resting beside the altar. She rinses until the last taste of her lover’s pleasure has left her tongue, then she rubs her cheek against Hippolyta’s arm. Her skin is hot and sweaty, and Hippolyta’s trembling limbs feel cool against her.

_ “Martha Kent…”  _ Hippolyta’s voice is slurred, her accent creeping into the syllables of Martha’s name. And Martha raises her head. Hippolyta’s mouth is slightly open, her hair spread around her head like the rays of the sun itself…

“Unblind me.”

Martha reaches over and tugs the golden blindfold from her eyes, and her breath catches as Hippolyta blinks up at her. She’d forgotten that it’s been a week since Hestia bound her eyes, a week full of the wildest sights and sounds and smells imaginable…

And for a moment, they simply stare at each other. 

Martha is staring because she’s never seen anything so beautiful before as those ocean eyes, those eyes that can see through her soul, those eyes that can make sinners tremble and quake, that command respect of every creature in this world… that stare so softly back at her when they’re alone together at night…

Hippolyta doesn’t speak. 

It doesn’t occur to Martha until much later that maybe she couldn’t.

_ Hippolyta… _

And the goddess reaches out to her, and Martha lays down beside her, snuggling up against her. And Hippolyta presses a shaky kiss to her wet forehead and pulls her close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO MORE SMUT FOR YOU.
> 
> (jk, but for reals, no more smut for a while! My brain needs a break!) Also, I literally just slapped this chapter together today and I haven’t even proofread this thing, but I’m tired and you’re thirsty so here you are! :D
> 
> Thanks for reading!!! I hope you stick around for the um, non-smut parts, ~~and also the WEDDING~~. :)
> 
> P.S. The chapter title has absolutely nothing to do with the chapter, it's just the song I listened to on repeat while writing it!!


	20. My Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WEDDING

_Anyway, I… tried. I tried really hard, but you know me, words… they’re not my strong suit._

_I like your words._

_Shush, it’s my turn._

_Very well._

_Anyway, as I was saying, I tried. But there just… aren’t words to describe this. You, and me, and us. How… strange it is, perfect it is, everything that’s happened in the last three years. You’ve always—you’ve always taken care of me, through everything, you’ve been there to fill my every need, even before I know what I need. And you’ve always given me the choice to be as independent as I wanted. You’ve put up with me, and loved me, and given me more second chances than I can count… and you gave me hope—you gave me hope, at a point in my life where I didn’t have any hope, I didn’t have anything, really. I was—was stuck, dead end. And you… you…_

_Martha Kent…_

_I’m not crying, stop, I’m not—I’m happy. This is happy, happiness, see? ...now be quiet, I have something—I’m going to read you something. This… this is from an old song from Man’s World, one of my favorites when I was growing up, it’s called You Are My Sunshine…_

* * *

Martha Kent opens her eyes.

The ceiling is bright. There is the sound of trickling water rising up from a stone fountain in the corner, the pulsing light of the sea breeze moving gently over thin curtains. Martha sits up, and silk sheets pool around her torso, exposing her naked body. New Themyscira is beautiful and open and bright, but it was built upon the ruins of a drafty palace, and sometimes, the shadows still linger in the corners, beneath the windowsills, in the halls.

But this room is all gleaming white marble and filmy curtains that do nothing to hinder the sun shining brightly outside. She blinks rapidly in the face of blinding light, trying to figure out where on _Earth—_ and then a soft sigh coming up from beside her interrupts her confused thoughts, and Martha glances down.

And it is her.

The Queen—the most beautiful woman in the _world—_ is lying beside her, eyes closed, limbs flung gracelessly in every direction. Martha’s sitting up has tugged the sheets away from her body, and the sunlight is shining over the broad expanse of smooth skin. Hippolyta shivers slightly in her sleep and rolls over, curling up next to Martha’s warm body.

 _Well, I’m glad I’m good for something around here,_ Martha thinks with a rueful smile, leaning back against the pile of pillows and furs, and carefully pulling the blankets back around her fianceé’s shoulders, drawing her in so that the Queen’s head is tucked comfortably beneath her chin. But Martha doesn’t close her eyes. She just lies there, staring at her lover’s sleepy face, her sharp cheekbones, her weathered skin that somehow manages to be both pale and tan, those dark eyelashes that brush up against her cheek, that _mouth—_

“You are welcome to get up if you wish. You needn’t wait for me.”

And Martha gives a little gasp, but Hippolyta’s eyes don’t open, in fact, she doesn’t even move.

“I’m… I’m okay. I’m just watching,” Martha replies in a small voice.

“I _know,”_ Hippolyta murmurs, her tone meaningful despite its quietness, and Martha grins, then leans forward to kiss the top of her head.

“Go back to sleep, pretty woman. I’m not going anywhere.”

And Hippolyta gives a contented sigh and burrows deeper underneath the covers, burying her face against her little human’s soft belly, and Martha strokes back her hair, raising her head to look once more out the open windows. She can hear the sound of the ocean from here, a distant roar of waves. The curtains part slightly in the breeze, and Martha glimpses a deep, almost _too_ perfect blue sky, a stretch of rustling, overgrown grass rushing out to meet the sea. There’s a seagull calling in a distance, and the world is quiet, warm, tranquil.

And Hippolyta… her poor, poor girl, tired and sore, tormented within an inch of her life by those wild, hungry goddesses, lying peacefully beside her in the cold light of the sun…

* * *

_A gift. For the Queen of Goddesses, and her betrothed._

_—a gift that was requested, by the way._

_Peace, Artemis. Here, My Lady. Are they pleasing to you?_

_Oh, Hippolyta, look…_

_Well done, Hestia._

_No, My Queen, thank YOU… for so long, my forge has only sung the songs of war, weapons, destruction. It was my joy to create something that promises love instead of hate._

* * *

“Look at this place.”

The world is beginning to darken. Hippolyta turns as Martha comes up behind her, pulling a thin shawl tighter around her shoulders against the evening chill.

“You like it better from land, little one?”

“I don’t think Earth even _has_ colors like this.”

And Hippolyta wraps her arms around her shivering lover and presses a soft kiss to her cheek before turning once more to gaze out over the glittering ocean. It is familiar, this view, heartbreakingly so. Hippolyta sighs. No, she is not unhappy here, in this home of the goddesses, with the world at peace, and the woman she loves in her arms, but sometimes...

“There is a place,” she hears her voice say, low and melancholy. “Hidden away, secluded from Man’s World.”

And Martha’s eyes find hers in the dim light of the pale sun.

“...do you miss it? Your island?”

_Themyscira…_

The home and pride of the Amazons, their refuge, their training ground, their paradise...

“No.” And Hippolyta tears her eyes away from a horizon that is too familiar, a sight that renders her heart both empty and full, a sight that is both strange and familiar, painful and comforting. “No, Martha Kent. Not when I’m with you.”

* * *

_...here?_

_Why not here? We have our rings, our vows—_

_Do you not wish to say those vows before your family, your friends?_

_...do you?_

_The entire Underworld already knows how I feel about you. But you..._

_I what?_

_You deserve everything._

_Oh, Hippolyta… I’ve already been married twice—no, I’m sorry, I’m not saying that to_ _hurt you—_

_You didn’t, little one._

_I just mean that I don’t care about that. The only people I care about being at our wedding is you. In fact..._

_...in fact what?_

_I mean, do you want a big wedding?_

_I want you._

_I know that—_

_Are you sure? Because there are some ways I would like very much to show you just how much I want you..._

Focus, _Hippolyta, we’re trying to get married here._

_Very well. I wish to marry you here on this cliff, with no one but the setting sun and the rising moon to bear witness to our sacred vows, if this is also what you want… is it?_

_I… I think so. Yes… yes._

_Yes?_

_Yes. It’s what I want, too._

_Good. We shall do it tomorrow._

_What? No, today, I want to marry you to—_

_Tomorrow._

_God, Hippolyta, why do you always do this…_

_Because you are so adorable and impatient when you want something—_

_Hippolyta!_

_And I must prepare._

_Well, you’d better be preparing something amazing._

_Oh, Martha Kent… there may never be a woman perfect enough to deserve you… but I will certainly endeavor to try._

* * *

“You know, you didn’t _tell_ me we would be surrounded by naked women all day. That was not very considerate of you.”

The surface bubbles, then Hippolyta emerges like one of the sirens, glowing waves of steaming water lapping against the sides of the pool and her own broad shoulders as she grins up at her. Martha frowns back, crossing her arms as best she can with a stack of towels in the way.

“I am sorry,” Hippolyta replies innocently, but the Goddess of Death is clearly not sorry, if the mischievous gleam in her eyes is any indication, and Martha gives her a little shove with her toe that does absolutely nothing.

“Join me,” The Queen murmurs, tossing aside the towels in her arms and tugging lightly at Martha’s elbow. Martha doesn’t need to be asked twice. She allows her lover to pull her down, then gives a long, low sigh as hot water envelopes her tired bones.

Hippolyta looks curiously at her, but Martha closes her eyes, shutting out the sight of the flickering water, the shadowed cave walls, the goddess’ frustratingly beautiful figure.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Hippolyta’s voice is closer to her ear than she anticipated, but she forces herself not to moan.

“All these women out here, all these goddesses… they love you.”

“I know.”

“Yes, but… they _love_ you. They clearly desire you. And _any_ of them would’ve made a better wife to the Queen.”

The tickle of Hippolyta’s lips against her cheek withdraws slightly, but she only says quietly,

“What is your question?”

“...why me?”

“Because I love you. I loved you from the first moment I saw you.”

“Yes, but—”

“What do you want, little one?” Hippolyta asks, easing closer to her and brushing her fingertips over Martha’s burning skin. “Do you want me to count the ways I love you? We could be here a very long time. And then we will miss our wedding tomorrow.”

“No, I…” Martha begins, flustered, opening her eyes to give her lover a playful shove. “I’m… I’m just…”

“Tell me.”

“I’m just _scared.”_

“Scared of what?” Hippolyta asks, wrapping her arms around her and kissing her nose, her voice soft now.

“I don’t know… scared you’ll wake up and wonder what you’re doing,” Martha mumbles, looking away. “Or some... some old goddess flame of yours will appear and make you realize what you’re missing out on.”

“...what am I missing out on?”

 _“Hippolyta…”_ Martha whines, restless in her arms, burying her face in Hippolyta’s shoulder in frustration. And Hippolyta strokes her hair, waiting, as Martha squirms like a little worm trying to burrow itself back under the dirt. But at last she forces herself to raise her chin and look her lover in the eye. “Don’t you think you’ll get tired of me? Just a little? Eventually?”

“Oh, my darling…” Hippolyta gazes down at her, and her eyes are soft. But Martha’s expression does not change and the Queen cups her cheeks with wet hands. “Listen to me, little one… every morning, I wake before the sun. It is a habit from years on the battlefield, when I would go to watch from the balconies as the city began to stir, or go out to greet the night watch as they returned. But now, I lie beside you and wait for you to wake. I count the seconds and wait for you to open your eyes and greet the morning… I wait, and every moment that passes, my heart _aches_ for you, even as you lie there in my arms.

“There will be moments, of course. Minutes, hours, perhaps _days_ when we desire solitude. Moments when we will need time apart, as you say. But for me, it will be fleeting. It will be temporary. It will pass. And in the tapestry of time, in the span of our existence, its only significance will be the way it served to bring us closer together. _You_ may tire of _me—_ no, you may. You are human, you are alive, and one day, you may feel the tug of Earth, a longing for the life that is your right to live. But I, tire of you? No. No, no, no, Martha Kent, _no.”_

* * *

_It is not our tradition to wed. The Amazons saw how Man’s World used marriage to capture women, enslaving them, keeping them from experiencing all of life, and in the name of love, of devotion. We despised such a flagrant violation to the joyful bonds we knew could exist between man and woman, man and man, woman and woman... it was not until my daughter returned to us and married her wife before all our people that we saw how beautiful such a ritual can be._

_Martha… my darling, I have loved you since the moment I first saw you. My heart leapt, as if to leap from my chest into your arms, and for a moment, I forgot my grief, and my desire to harm, and my defenses as a warrior, as a woman. And when you came to me in the night, and told me your thoughts beneath the moon and the stars… I knew it was not an accident that brought me into Man’s World at long last._

_I cannot promise the impossible. I cannot promise to give you all that you desire. I can only give you what I have, but all that I have is yours: my world, my body, my soul, my heart... no matter what happens, Martha Kent, know that I am yours. And for as long as you will have me, little one, I will protect you, honor you, and worship you..._

* * *

Martha can’t stop kissing her.

A human woman might have grown irritated at Martha’s insatiable lips, but Hippolyta is not a human woman. Besides, the goddess seems just as sleepless as she, and her smile is wide with mischief and happiness as Martha slides her arms around her neck once more and pulls her down, skin to skin, breast to breast, mouth to mouth.

“I want to spend the rest of my life doing this,” Martha mumbles, her words coming out all jumbled and silly. She doesn’t blame Hippolyta as she pulls away slightly and gives her a funny look.

“...doing _what?”_ she asks, one eyebrow raised suggestively.

“Seeing things,” Martha clarifies, waving an absent hand towards the windows, where the sun is either rising or setting over the sea (neither of them has been paying much attention). “Going around, seeing people, visiting places with you.”

“Is that not why you married me?” Hippolyta teases, subtly teasing her skin as well. “For the leisurely sightseeing?”

“No…” Martha says, arching her back towards those wandering hands, and stealing another kiss from those parted lips. “I married you for your _body.”_

Hippolyta gives her a little shove back into the pillows and Martha laughs as strong arms capture her, far too carefully to hurt, but just tight enough to make her squeal.

“We have spent too much time with the goddesses,” Hippolyta says mournfully as Martha thrashes in her arms. “They have corrupted you.”

“Only _one_ goddess has corrupted me,” Martha gasps, jerking a hand free from her lover’s grasp (the ring on her frantically waving hand catches the light: a diamond sun set deep in the embrace of a crescent moonstone) and seizing a tangle of silky hair, and pulling her forward for a bruising kiss. “And she has done so very _nicely.”_

“Has she, now?” Hippolyta whispers against her lips, and a shiver runs down Martha’s spine. “Tell me more.”

And Martha grins, ducking her head as that tell-tale blush creeps up her neck.

“I _would,”_ she says meaningfully, reaching up to stroke her cheek. “But I don’t think she’s done yet… is she?”

“Oh, little one…” And Hippolyta nuzzles her shoulder, lightly biting her neck _just_ the way Martha likes it, making her mew with pleasure and grasp at hard muscles and golden hair, pulling her closer, just a little, just a little closer...

_My sunshine, my only sunshine…_

“...we’ve barely begun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~And then they fucked nonstop for about 10,000 years~~.
> 
> THIS IS THE END OF ACT ONE. THANK THE _GODDESSES._ (Thanks also to you for reading, you are all goddesses, too!!!).
> 
> A couple things!
> 
> 1) So the wedding here definitely came out differently than I anticipated. I was planning more of a "WonderPoison/All The Amazons were clapping/Goddesses gave blessings" type ceremony, but I also like the idea of these two teasing and whispering their vows to each other on the edge of a cliff with no one else to hear them but themselves. It's more intimate and these two have lived through enough stuffy ceremonies to know what's important. 
> 
> 2) The Second Act of this fic is outlined and ready to speed its way down the Angst Express, but if you're not up for reading JFA Pt. 2, you can stop reading here and pretend Hippolyta and Martha lived happily ever after in the Underworld (but where's the fun in that). There are some nasty surprises coming up, but also some LONGTIME-COMING cameos ~~also John Constantine gets a boyfriend~~ and I can't wait to bring some old faces back. ;)
> 
> 3) But thanks again so much for reading, this is the longest fic I've ever written/posted, and I'm amazed you made it this far!! Thank you so much, it really means a lot!!! :D


	21. ACT II: Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedded bliss

At some point, Martha stops asking.

Time feels different in the Underworld, more meaningful, more precious, more tangible, yet the moments pass as a blur. Martha remembers huddling beneath Hippolyta’s warm cloak in an igloo, listening to the chatter as their fur-bundled hosts came and went, picking at the food from the communal table… the entire village running out to the beach, braving the storm with baskets and knives and axes in hand at the news of their Queen and the youth returned with a whale big enough to feed everyone for a year… Martha staring in awe at the sight of Hippolyta facing the tempest, the sky nearly as restless as the sea, the bloody harpoon still across her hands as she knelt and offered up the ceremonial prayers to the dead behemoth lying before her...

Then there was the time when Hippolyta decided to join the Roman gladiators in the arena, dueling their armored warriors, and Martha had sat nervously in the viewing box, trying to watch as her lover faced monsters and men… those memories taste of sweat and dust, straining to hear the distant cries of victory or defeat over the deafening cheers from the audience. Hippolyta was always alight with fire after these matches, throwing her down onto their bed when the feasting and drinking was over, tearing her apart in the snapping light of the fire, pushing her up over the brink again and again, kissing her like she was starving and could only be sated by Martha’s lips, her skin, her pleasure.

There are other times, too: the night Hippolyta snuck Martha out of a castle and onto a moonlit field, and then she’d handed her a short knife and proceeded to teach her how to _use_ it _(You should at least be able to defend yourself,_ she’d said casually, the careful nonchalance in her expression signaling that it was best that Martha not ask any questions);

Or the time Hippolyta set down the black chariot in the middle of the forest and hurried to build a lean-to of thick branches in a handful of minutes, and only moments after she’d pulled Martha underneath its shelter, a heavy rainfall had soaked every inch of the land surrounding them (the forest had been so beautiful when the storm passed, with the water droplets glistening off every surface and the birds singing, Martha had started crying right there in the middle of the woods);

Or the time they’d arrived in one of the modern cities that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the East Coast, and Hippolyta had caught a glimpse of Martha’s shining eyes as they strolled together through a park of well-clipped grass, and she had ordered a rowboat to take them across the lake _(God, Hippolyta, if I wasn’t married to you already, I’d be proposing right now,_ she’d said, stretching out contently and resting her head against her wife’s lap. Hippolyta had let go of the oars and bent to kiss her, and they’d continued kissing until the stars came out).

In every place they visit, Martha sees another side of her new wife: Hippolyta the hunter, Hippolyta the warrior, Hippolyta the weaver, Hippolyta the blacksmith, Hippolyta the healer, Hippolyta the scientist, Hippolyta the sailor, Hippolyta the teacher, but always, _always,_ it is Hippolyta the lover who meets her at the end of the day, at the touch of nightfall, at the kiss of the moon and the stars. They whisper to one another beneath heavy furs, upon soft silk, inside log cabins, marble temples, warm tipis. Sometimes Hippolyta draws her aside into some secluded corner, or leads her to the open balcony of some castle, or presses her down onto a bed of cool grass, mossy stones, colorful wildflowers. Sometimes Hippolyta slips her hand over Martha’s mouth as a platoon of guards pass by where they are hidden, almost close enough to touch, and Martha’s delight at the absurdity of it almost cancels out her terror at nearly being caught; other times Hippolyta urges her to scream as loud and lustily as she can, until the _world_ knows under no uncertain terms whatsoever that their Queens are deep in the throes of lovemaking, and that this love is strong, passionate, and _good._

_Hippolyta… Hippolyta… oh, gods, Hippolyta..._

Hippolyta makes her aware, time and time again, that she has plighted her troth to a goddess, and these are the moments Martha remembers the most, even as the years and decades pass, and the finer details begin to blur...

 _I want to spend the rest of my life doing this,_ she had told her on their wedding night. Already, New Olympus and that breathtaking ocean view seem so far in the past. Martha’s ring is untarnished on her finger, and sometimes at night, she lays a hand upon her lover’s trembling skin and admires the gleaming jewels: the sun made of sparkling diamond, and the crescent moon made of polished moonstone. It matches the ring on Hippolyta’s elegant hand, although her gems are set flush into the golden band, warrior she is, she cannot risk any distraction from her blade (and Martha knows well enough that Hippolyta’s wild hair would get caught in a traditional prong ring no less than fifty times before the morning meal is over).

But Hippolyta is attentive, and she is tender, and she is reckless, and wild, and free. Sometimes she goes to train on some field or lot or beach, and Martha wanders away with some friendly group as they garden outside the camps, or shoot arrows upon the rooftops, or blow glass at the forge, or gut the day’s hunt in the storerooms. Sometimes Martha takes the horses and goes on her own adventures up the village, up the mountains, up the river, up the road.

 _You needn’t ask my permission, little one,_ Hippolyta will say, that gentle hand reaching out to stroke back Martha’s hair. And she ducks her head, lightly bites those wandering fingers, and then she goes, a smile on her face. Sometimes she returns with flowers from the fields, trinkets from the markets, stones from the riverbeds, and stories of this strange, wonderful place.

_I love you… I love you… I love you…_

It is beyond anything she dreamed, this life, this woman, this world. And if Martha Kent thought that she loved these things before their marriage… it is _nothing_ compared to after.

* * *

“It’s amazing how small they look from here.”

The sailors almost look like ants as they dance across the swaying rigging. Martha is shielding her eyes as she stares up at them, praying that none of them fall. But none of them ever do. Laura Kent follows her gaze and smiles.

“Don’t you worry.”

She’s a woman of few words, Jonathan’s grandmother. But she’s a feisty little thing, polite and professional when on deck, and rambunctious and hilarious inside the Captain’s quarters. Her crew consists of all women, even her dog and the cats that scurry their way around the kitchen and storeroom.

At first, Martha had refused to join her at sea, because _her,_ Martha Kent on a ship? _I’ll be worse than useless,_ she’d said, but Captain Kent had put her hands on her hips and said in a knowing voice,

_Don't let Kansas scare you, now._

And Martha had sighed and turned to look at Hippolyta, who had been watching the whole exchange with an amused smile. And then the next thing she knew, they were boarding a little lifeboat, sailing out to where the cleanest, most beautiful ship Martha had ever seen (a “sloop-of-war” Laura calls it) was anchored in the bay.

Hippolyta and Laura seem to know each other well, considering the easy banter between them. _No one’s better at sailing,_ Laura admitted to Martha over dinner in the Captain’s quarters on their first night. _Those island women, they’re practically fish. But I taught her how to command the seas. Wanted to teach her some other things too, but apparently she thought you were worth it._

And Martha had blinked at her, then blushed and turned in her seat to look through the glass doors to where Hippolyta is dueling some awestruck sailor with a little rapier. She was already more relaxed than Martha had ever seen her on this trip, but this _had_ been the first time in a while that they’d been surrounded by only women.

“Anyway, it’s nice to have another runaway Kent. For a while, I thought I was the only one.”

Martha startles unpleasantly from her thoughts. The sun has set, leaving the deck of the ship glowing softly under the light of the lanterns, the stars. The only sounds surrounding them are the soft splash of the waves against the hull, some sailors singing in the keep, and the occasional organ key bellowing out from the Captain’s rooms as Hippolyta fixes the pipes. It takes her a moment to realize what Laura has said, and she flinches at the insinuation, but it is not without grace that she turns and glances back at the woman who looks more like a pirate than a grandmother.

“I didn’t run away, it just… happened.”

“Lucky for you,” Laura says with a smirk, nodding for Martha to take the wheel while she pulls a pipe from her coat and proceeds to light it. Martha reaches out and grips the polished spokes (10 and 2 o’clock, like she’d been taught how to drive), and for a long moment, they stand together in companionable silence: Laura puffing quietly, and Martha watching as the bow of the ship glides across the waves.

“What’s it like?”

Laura’s voice is calm, practiced, as if she’s had thousands of conversations like this, standing up at the helm, watching the dark water, waiting for the time to pass. Martha gives a small smile as she deliberates for a moment on how to answer the vague question, then she seizes the safer route.

“It’s wonderful... I never thought I would ever, I mean, seeing all these people and visiting all these places. Even on _Earth_ you couldn’t do this. I feel very lucky—I _am_ very lucky.”

Laura Kent gives her a funny look, as if she knows Martha’s avoiding the question she’d actually been asking, then her lip curls in amusement and she blows out a cloud of smoke that smells like vanilla and the old days.

“I mean, how is it, going from being married to a Kent, to being married to _her.”_

“Oh, I don’t know…” Martha laughs a little and shoves down the part in her that is squirming uncomfortably, as if her homosexual marriage is something she should dance around, avoid discussing. There’s no reason for that, no reason for shame, at least not here, in the dark of the night with this brash sailor beside her. “Sometimes it feels like marriage is… something else, to us, than it was the other time.”

A peal of laughter rises up from below decks, then it fades down to its muffled singing and card playing once more. Laura glances towards the trapdoor, then looks back at her, her face shadowed, but kind.

“I'm just... I’m so used to marriage being about halves, you know?” Martha finally admits, eyes fixed on the blanket of water, the wide expanse of stars. “Your “other half”, your “better half”, the person that makes you complete. But Hippolyta _is_ complete— _God,_ there's never been a more complete woman in the world… and in a lot of ways, she's shown me that I am, too. It's not so much that we complete each other, but we compliment each other, and we don't need each other, but we want each other. It’s… new. I mean, coming from Kansas where we’re told that you need a man, and a man needs a woman. It’s…”

“...a relief?”

“Well, it takes the pressure off.”

Laura steps up next to her, and Martha turns to her, looking to see if she’s moving in to take over the wheel.

“Let her glide, she’ll be fine. These waters won’t give us any trouble as long as she’s on board,” she murmurs, jerking her head to the quarterdeck, where the harsh organ sounds have given way to a faint, lilting little melody. Martha obediently lets go of the wheel and turns to face her. The funny thing is, sometimes she can see Jonathan in her, this woman, this sailor who walks the deck with a critical eye, holds herself with that certain pride, that military swagger, a fighter who’s earned everything she has with her bare hands.

“You know, I can’t tell you how proud I was when I heard who you were,” Laura Kent says, absently taking the pipe from her mouth to relight it, leaning an elbow against the railing. “That someone from my town, from my _family_ was the chosen one. And not just because she’s notoriously difficult—people have been writing odes to that woman since the first age—but because finally someone else was stepping out. It’s like the entire family somehow mustered the guts to settle as far West as Kansas, and not one inch further...”

Laura pauses, an unlit match in one hand, her pipe in the other, her eyes fixed on some nondescript surface past Martha’s shoulder.

“I can’t tell you how good it feels, finally, some company.”

Martha opens her mouth to reply, but there’s a lump in her throat, and it feels strange to offer this woman a hug as she’s fumbling with her pipe and an open flame, and then there are footsteps, and the Queen herself appears on the steps to the wheelhouse, smelling faintly of old metal and oil.

“Here is the list of pipes you need to replace next time you get a chance. I did what I could with the others. If you spent less time on the Styx, the corrosion wouldn’t affect them so much.”

“Or you could just make the Styx less _salty,”_ Laura replies cheekily, clearly unmoved by the subtle reproach. Hippolyta grins and slaps the chart and an old, oily rag into the Captain’s hand, then turns to kiss the top of Martha’s head, sliding an arm around her middle.

“Thank the gods, you finally put someone reliable at the helm.”

“I’m going down. Don’t _break_ anything before Jane comes up,” Laura cackles, blowing out a final puff of smoke before turning and disappearing below decks to find the first mate.

“You should’ve married _that_ Kent.”

Hippolyta gives a swift glance towards Laura’s disappearing figure then looks back at Martha with a confused frown.

“I didn’t want to marry that Kent.”

Martha sighs and shakes her head, tightening her arms around Hippolyta’s waist. “Why do you always have the right thing to say?”

“It’s a wonder I can speak at all when I’m looking at you, my darling,” Hippolyta whispers, kissing her forehead now, then her cheek, and her nose, and Martha loosens her arms to slide them around that long neck, sinking her fingers into that familiar tangle of silky hair, and she shivers as the Queen’s cold lips find hers.

 _If only I had kissed you that morning at the lake,_ Martha tells her later as they’re lying in bed together, gazing into each others eyes, fingers tracing skin. _What would it have been like, to feel your breath against mine, your lips warm for once._

 _I tried to kiss you when you were standing by yourself in that crowded room, but your son was watching,_ Hippolyta replies drowsily, a small smile on her face.

 _Oh, that’s right,_ Martha murmurs, snuggling closer and closing her eyes. _You should’ve done it anyway. I wouldn’t have minded._

_We may yet get a chance, one day._

And Martha opens her mouth to ask what she means, but Hippolyta pulls her closer, and she is asleep before she can take another breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Hi everyone I was productive this week~~
> 
> Thanks for reading! This chapter was fun to write after some _very_ intense chapters back there... anyway, Laura Kent was 27 when she died, in case anyone's wondering, and I broke out my Pirates: At World's End soundtrack for the first time in ages just to write this chapter. :D
> 
> In the next chapter, Hippolyta and Martha visit an orphanage and decide it's time to go home :)
> 
> (Also, don't worry, the angst is coming, and yes, I will warn you when it's soon!)


	22. Daydreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha has a dream.
> 
> ~~A much nicer dream than the last time~~

It’s when they’re visiting an orphanage that Martha asks to go home.

There’s a child in her arms, a little girl with a head of dark hair and drool on her chin, and they’re looking at a mural on the walls.

_What animal is this? And what about this one?_ Martha asks again and again, pointing to the different creatures poking their heads out of an enormous boat. The toddler answers in a small, awed little voice, and then wiggles to be put down when she sees Hippolyta approaching. And to Martha’s surprise, the girl runs to her, absolutely fearless in the face of this armored warrior Queen, and Hippolyta sweeps her up into arms and asks her a question in her native tongue, an old language long dead on Earth.

When the child has gone running to join her friends once more, Hippolyta comes up behind her wife, a curious expression on her face.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind, I was just, I got...” Martha says, not looking at her as she busily tidies up what is apparently one of the orphanage’s many play rooms.

“It is possible.”

And Martha’s nervous stuttering stumbles to a halt.

_Hippolyta..._

It’s been years. Years upon years, traveling, seeing the Underworld, meeting people, old and young… and once or twice, she’s allowed herself to dream, a distant dream, barely tangible.

_What if…_

And then she always shakes it away. Even if by some bizarre, absurd goddess magic, Hippolyta managed to… Martha’s body is not a hospitable place for a child: all those heartbreaking years with Jonathan proved that.

But sometimes, she laughs as the children run toward her with flowers, offering blossom after blossom to her until her arms are overflowing with fragrant color. And other times, she sees Hippolyta with the youth: training, teaching, teasing. They never forgot the Queen who delivered them safely into the Underworld, the woman who rescued them from captivity with the demons. Even the babies cling to her, grasping at the Goddess of Death’s golden hair as she presses the lightest of kisses to their fuzzy little heads.

_What if…?_

Martha has other dreams, too. Dreams of her garden. Dreams of opening a shop, a small, open room with buckets and buckets of flowers, a place where she can arrange bouquets, give people a little sliver of color and life… and sometimes, there’s a small figure running up and down the aisles, barely visible amongst the petals and leaves.

“Martha?” Hippolyta’s voice is concerned now, her eyes fixed on her as Martha stares unseeing across the room. Martha gazes at moment longer at her daydreams, so close that her heart almost aches with longing, and then she shakes herself and turns to look at her, a soft, happy smile on her face.

_“Hippolyta…”_ The Queen’s arms wrap around her, and Martha lays her head against her silent heart. It’s a big world, the Underworld. A world full of magic and wonder, darkness and light, heaven and hell…

But maybe... maybe it’s big enough for one more.

“Let’s go home.”

* * *

The Amazons are out in formation when the black chariot lands in the middle of the courtyard. The long tables are not yet set up for the evening meal, making room for the entire Amazon army to witness the arrival of their Queens.

Martha steps nervously from her seat, her knees shaking as hundreds of warrior faces stare back at her. They’ve arrived in thousands of cities and towns and camps over the years, but this is _different,_ this is the first time since the wedding, since this never-ending honeymoon that she’s seen these people—perhaps they’re upset, angry that they stole away in the morning mist and never looked back—but Hippolyta comes up behind her, slides an arm around her waist, and kisses the top of her head right there in front of them all. And Antiope pushes forward, her weathered face beaming, that battle-ready stance relaxed for once, and her eyes are gleaming with pride as she pulls them both into a hearty embrace.

* * *

“God, I feel younger than when we left here. Is that what vacations do? Make you younger?”

Hippolyta replies with something indiscernible from across the room where she has just finished hanging the last of her things in her wardrobe. Martha opens her pack, stares at the pile of clothes within, and closes it once more.

_Don’t be lazy._

But it’s not like she has to go back to work tomorrow, it’s not like the world will end if she lets her clothes sit in her travel bag for a few hours while she sits down for a second…

A pile of wrapped packages catches her eye, stacked neatly in the corner beside her own wardrobe, and she moves forward. When she’s close enough to confirm what they are, she glances over her shoulder, but Hippolyta has disappeared behind her wardrobe screen, and the sound of steel against stone tells her that the woman is polishing her sword for the umpteenth time. Martha grins and turns away, pulling the string on the first package, and peeking inside at shadowed folds of fine embroidered cotton.

_God, it’s so beautiful._

She sets the first package aside and picks up a second, not noticing that the rasp of steel from across the room has stopped.

“What is this?”

Martha whirls around, the wrapped package still clutched in her hands, her cheeks going red. Hippolyta gives her flustered face a bemused smile, and Martha looks away.

“I, ah—I ordered some things. From every place we visited, I found a tailor, a female tailor, and ordered something and had it sent back.”

“That’s wonderful,” Hippolyta says enthusiastically, her expression completely unsuspecting as she reaches for one of the unwrapped packages. Martha snatches it away, every bit of willpower keeping her from hiding it behind her back.

“I… they’re for you.”

Hippolyta raises an eyebrow.

“Do you wish to show me another ti—”

“No, now—now is good,” Martha mumbles, reluctantly handing the package over and shuffling nervously. “I got them for you to wear, when we’re together, here, at… night. You may not like them all, like—ah, yes, see, that one doesn’t look especially comfortable, with all the lace, oh, and _this_ one has fur, it must have been from up North, and, I mean, don’t worry if you don’t like them, you don’t have to _—mmmph.”_

Hippolyta has bent and kissed her babbling mouth, silencing her. Martha stands there for a moment, then lets the wrapping paper and scraps of satin fall from her hands as she wraps her arms around that long neck.

“You are so very human, Martha Kent,” Hippolyta murmurs against her lips, but there’s a smile in her voice, and Martha dares a glance at her face as she leans back.

“...is that a good thing?” she says shyly, glancing aside as Hippolyta plucks and grandly holds out a long, floaty negligee that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a 50s glamor shot.

“It’s the best thing. Thank you.” Hippolyta’s kiss is almost warm against her forehead, and her eyes are gleaming as she slowly pulls away and gives a mischievous smile at Martha’s flushed face.

“Later, little one. We only just returned.”

“I wasn’t _going_ to,” Martha insists, abruptly turning away. Hippolyta laughs and nuzzles the top of her head.

“I must go to see what damage my sister has done in our absence.”

“Fine. I’m going to see what’s left of my garden once I finish unpacking. I’ll meet you back here for the evening meal.”

Hippolyta’s fingers are cool as they brush lightly up and down her arm.

“And _then…”_ The Queen’s voice is low and sultry, and Martha feels it go right through her, as if the sirens of Anthemoessa had captured her and slipped a few deft fingers between her—

_“Stop_ it,” Martha whines, even though she knows it’s her own weak-willed fault, because this magnificent woman has done nothing but _speak._

But Hippolyta kisses her, and her kiss is tender this time, and then she is gone, leaving Martha standing alone in their rooms, a light silk chemise that is soft as water clutched in her hands.

* * *

Later that night, the Goddess of Death captures her human lover and pulls her down onto their bed, and Martha Kent runs her hands over the sheer, beautifully embroidered nightgown _(babydoll,_ she might have described it on Earth, but here, it might as well be a full suit of armor, because her heart stops the moment she sees it on her wife’s glorious body, and she’s fairly sure she’s died and gone to—

Well.

Hippolyta presses kiss after kiss to her neck with low, teasing reproaches about the wiles of little humans, and Martha barely has the chance to gasp out, _God, Hippolyta you look so..._ before the Queen has kissed her way down her torso, fingers already easing that ache between her legs.

Eventually, that red silk is spilled across the floor (Hippolyta had wanted to fold it neatly after Martha pulled it off of her, but the impatient woman had tossed it across the room and ordered her to _get back on this bed, now,_ and the Queen had grinned and indulgently obliged her bossy little wife).

When the moon is high and even the farthest reaches of the city are quiet, they find themselves lying side by side, skin on skin, arms holding each other close. Martha gives a soft, contented sigh as Hippolyta kisses her forehead, then she shifts to look her in the eye.

“Hippolyta?”

The Queen’s eyes are closed but her lip curls slightly and she buries her cheek even deeper into the pillow.

“Hmm?”

“Did you mean what you said in the orphanage, that it’s possible for...?” She doesn’t even know how to say it. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she sees Hippolyta’s figure looming over her, driving deeper and deeper into her until she cries out, but...

Hippolyta shifts slightly and opens her eyes, and irises as blue as the ocean stare steadily back at her.

“Before you arrived, I asked the Furies if it might be possible, if the time came when a child was something you and I both desired.”

Martha can’t speak for a moment, then she says breathlessly,

“And?”

“They had no objections. They are more concerned with the living crossing into the world of the dead.”

The words ring quietly in the room and Martha looks down, the soft, unintentional reproach echoing in her mind before she shakes it away.

_So, how do we…?_

“But we cannot, yet,” Hippolyta says softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of gray hair behind her ears. “It’s been years since I’ve patrolled the lands. I want to make sure everything is safe before we do this.”

“Oh, _Hippolyta…_ it’s _always_ waiting with you,” Martha groans, but she kisses those wandering fingers and snuggles deeper beneath the covers. “Do you have to? We’ve been all over already, everyone loves you. No one out there would dare cross you.”

“We only visited Elysium, little one. There are many who do not love me.”

Martha sighs again, and slides even deeper under the blankets, until only her forehead is visible.

“Fine,” she surrenders, her voice muffled by cotton sheets and woven fleece and soft skin. “But when our daughter is born, _I_ get to name her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> This is the last chapter before all hell breaks loose so... as much as I would love to just write a soft romance for these two, they don't live in a vacuum, and I'm desperately excited for some very specific individuals to find out about their relationship!
> 
> The good news is I've been planning some of these upcoming scenes since _October_ and I'm so excited to finally share them! (Just... don't get your hopes up for a kid in the next chapter :P).


	23. Sorcery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More unexpected visitors with unwelcome news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got about half a dozen rewrites, and I'm still not 100% happy with it, but ~~it's late and I'm tired~~ I hope it's clear/interesting enough to follow.

Martha wakes before dawn. Hippolyta is still motionless beside her, arms flung haphazardly over her head, one elegant leg creeping out from beneath the heavy covers, as if trying to escape her living body’s heat. Martha smiles and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, then crawls out of bed, biting her bottom lip to keep from whining as her feet meet the cold floor.

The horses are waiting on the roof, grazing at their designated “horse grazing area” of the rooftop garden. The long stretch of grass is covered in a faint dusting of snow. Martha had protested at first, unsure of the protocol of having horses on the _roof_ of a palace, but Hippolyta had grinned and tucked a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear in the waning sunlight.

_I can fly at will, my darling. Why should you have to trudge down to the stables to do the same?_

The horses gallop into the sky, eager to stretch their legs, and Martha sighs happily as the colorful sight of her garden emerges almost too soon through the morning fog.

* * *

Hippolyta is sitting in the garden upon their return, drinking from a steaming beaker of mulled wine, her brow furrowed as she reads a scroll. Martha runs to her, her cheeks flushed with the delicious morning air, and her body is so cold that Hippolyta’s arms almost feel warm as they wrap around her.

“No, don’t let me distract you, My Queen,” Martha teases, and she insists that her lover finish her reading, and contents herself with weaving small winter blossoms into a long braid of golden hair. When her hands begin to go numb with cold, she goes to soak her shivering body in the hot pool that lies secluded in the center of the rooftop garden.

When Hippolyta finds her dozing in the warm, glowing water, it must be near midday, judging by the color of the sky peeking through the trellises stretching overhead.

“I must attend to some business in the Embassy. I will return before the torches are lit,” Hippolyta whispers, pressing a soft kiss to Martha’s damp lips. “Do not forget to eat, little one.”

Martha hears the sound of a tray being set beside her at the edge of the pool, and she opens her eyes just in time to see the train of the Queen’s cloak disappearing over the edge of the roof. Aethon snorts behind her, and she startles, then looks to see him nudging the tray Hippolyta had left. It is covered in piles of lunch food, and—yes, there are snacks for her dead horses who require no snacks, but who eat them nonetheless.

“Oh, you silly,” Martha sighs, almost unsure if she’s scolding her horses or her dolting lover. She pushes back her wet hair and reaches for a towel, but pauses for a moment, watching the flickering shadows over the water.

* * *

The Embassy is swarming with guards.

Hippolyta descends, and immediately finds herself flanked on every side by Amazon warriors. And for a terrible moment, she is reminded of that cursed morning on Themyscira, marching into an armored stronghold, the Motherbox buzzing impatiently as hundreds of eyes watched and waited with grim fear...

Antiope pushes her way through the crowd to meet her, the greatest warrior in the history of the Amazons coming to escort her personally through the gilded entrance.

“What does she want?”

But Antiope only scowls as the golden doors swing open and a violet-haired figure raises her head at the sudden rush of winter sunlight. Hippolyta suppresses a hiss of derision, her hand jumping to the sword hilt at her side, and a sly smile spreads over the newcomer’s beautiful, heavily painted face.

_“You.”_

* * *

This room smells like Martha Kent.

Hippolyta doesn’t know if it’s the baskets of flowers hanging at intervals in the Embassy’s halls, or the fragrant blossoms that had been woven through her hair this morning, but the perfume is heavy, and it is making her restless.

_We only visited Elysium, little one. There are many who do not love me._

“I see your cooks had lost none of their skill when they passed into the Underworld.”

Hippolyta rouses herself and looks across the room as the lithe figure lounging on the low couch, a heavy wine goblet balanced in her hand as she slowly makes her way through a full Themyscrian lunch—a meal Antiope was loathe to provide her. _Do not defile New Themyscira by relieving your hunger within its walls, witch,_ she had snarled, but the sorcerer had only glanced at her, then looked back to Hippolyta, a mildly amused eyebrow raised, and Hippolyta had ordered the meal brought at once. She had no love for this great enemy of her people, but it was her duty to provide for her guests, as hostess, goddess, Queen.

But she had taken no food for herself, only a small glass of strong wine, which she had downed in one draught. But Circe takes her time, savoring every bite as if she hasn’t had a good meal for weeks. The princess-turned-goddess had requested her lunch alone with the Queen, and even Antiope’s deepest glare could not intimidate her into allowing one of the Guard to stay behind. _Circe has not been violent for a thousand years, General. Stand down._ Antiope had given her a look that said it wasn’t _violence_ she was worried about, but she had turned sharply away, and Circe had carried her feast into Hippolyta’s receiving rooms herself. And the moment she crossed the threshold, she had tossed aside her sleek, pine-green gown, and lowered herself onto one of the long, traditional couches without invitation.

“I’ve often wondered what animal I might turn to, if I consumed my own enchantment. What think you, Hippolyta?”

_A spider._

Hippolyta pushes aside the papers she’d begun to read while she waited for her guest to finish her meal, and focuses on the naked woman lounging on her couch, as comfortable as if she lived here. The platters are clean, only the wine goblet remains full, as if by some enchantment.

“You are wounded.”

 _“Do not wound if you can subdue,”_ Circe replies with a glittering smile, waving a grand hand at the wide, frosted windows. Hippolyta stares at her a moment, studying the faint but fresh wounds on this woman’s body, the deep cuts running in a line across her torso, caked over and concealed with paint and enchantments.

“You are observant, Hippolyta, although I’d forgotten... you have seen me naked before.”

 _Forgotten—_ more likely bursting with glee to _remind,_ but Hippolyta doesn’t allow herself to react as the enchantress stretches like a cat and sits up, apparently ready to begin the tale of her woes.

“I was attacked. My island is destroyed, and all the animals, all those who lived there are dead.”

_I know._

But Hippolyta says nothing as she watches the woman rise and move across the room toward her. The entire village of Aeaea had crossed the Styx one blustery morning, but Hippolyta had been able to gather nothing from them. _An earthquake,_ one had said; _a firestorm from above,_ another had wailed _._ Only when the animals also appeared did Hippolyta believe Circe had nothing to do with the destruction of her home.

“What happened, child?” Hippolyta says quietly, seeing that the sorcerer's eyes have glazed over.

“We were attacked by a man,” she replies absently, then she seemingly shakes herself back to the present and perches on the edge of Hippolyta’s desk, leaning back to give the Queen a far too intimate view of the blaze of wounds across her skin. “A _super_ man.”

Hippolyta looks sharply at her. Circe’s expression is smug, knowing… _too_ knowing.

“He would not have killed those innocents.”

Not Clark Kent, not that boy Clark, who Martha still talks of with that fierce pride in her voice, that soft gleam in her eyes, that faint worry in her smile...

“He nearly killed your _daughter_ three weeks ago, Hippolyta, and when you first met, he tried to kill _you._ Do not give him—what is it they say?—do not give him _credit_ that he does not deserve. _Besides...”_

Circe pushes herself off the edge of the desk and onto Hippolyta’s knee.

“Do not—”

“I hear something has upset him.”

Hippolyta has raised her hand to push the goddess away from her but her hand freezes in mid air, and Circe leans forward to whisper to her, soft as a lover.

“It was not just Aeaea, Hippolyta. He is tearing apart the entire _world,”_ Circe’s voice is a low murmur in her ear, but Hippolyta barely registers it’s soft tickle as dread settles into the pit of her stomach. “He has gathered his friends—including your _daughter—_ and launched an attack upon the Earth… he is not one of them, as you know, this Kryptonian. The strongest allegiance he had to that planet, _you_ stole away. Did you not think of that before you seized her, O Goddess, or did you simply allow lust to overtake your senses… as _usual?”_

_Is this the part where you drag me to your carriage and sweep me away to the Underworld?_

_Is that what you want?_

_I want_ you.

“I did not—”

“I have heard rumors,” Circe interrupts smoothly, brushing the back of her hand over Hippolyta’s fur-draped shoulders. _“Such_ rumors! Rumors of kidnapping, abduction… they say she was carried away, unwilling and lamenting, and brought to the Underworld.”

“That is a _lie,_ she came willingly,” Hippolyta replies sharply, reaching around Circe’s scarred body to brush her fingertips against the tabletop.

“Well, how on earth would he know that?”

But Hippolyta ignores her, and in a second, the polished surface of the desk flickers, and she finds herself staring at the strange image of a woman in red and blue armor, her arms raised in a placating gesture as a tableful of suited figures stare back at her. Time moves so slowly, it is almost as if it’s a still image, a painting instead of a living goddess. She looks frustrated, irritated, but unhurt, and Hippolyta murmurs a soft prayer of thanks as her eyes linger over that beautiful, solemn face, still so innocent and hopeful for a world without hope…

_Diana… my little sun and stars..._

“Perhaps you should have let her leave a note.”

Hippolyta sighs in frustration as Circe’s light, clueless voice brings her back to reality. The sorcerer has slipped her arms around her neck, and is smiling a small, infuriating smile down at her.

“Something like, _Dear Kal-El, stop. I have been seduced by a beautiful goddess and am leaving Earth, stop. Do not destroy humanity, stop._ You see? Simple, easy, short—”

“Get _off,”_ Hippolyta snaps, pushing the woman away. Circe cackles and straightens, graceful as a dancer, and tosses her head with breathtaking arrogance.

“If you had simply married _me,_ none of this would have happened.”

“I will send some of the Guard to escort you to New Olympus. If Hera will accept you, she can heal your wounds. If she will not, Athena will,” Hippolyta says shortly, running a tense hand through her hair, and stopping as her fingers brush up against wilting flower petals.

_Oh, little one... what have I done?_

Diana may be safe for the time being, and she is strong enough to accept whatever may come, but Martha... she will not take it well, the news of her son, her powerful, Kryptonian, Motherbox-charged son destroying the world, taking out his fear and rage on a helpless world as he looks for her... killing _innocents..._

“Ah, the Lady herself. However did you get past the Guard? They’re thick as thieves out there.”

Circe’s voice is jovial, welcoming, betraying none of her violence, her sadism, her _pain,_ but terror slices through Hippolyta’s heart like a knife, and all at once she’s towering over the naked woman as she’s in the middle of giving a mocking bow.

_“Do not speak to her.”_

Circe’s red eyes flash with amusement, and Hippolyta takes a menacing step forward, but there is a soft, familiar gasp from behind her, and for a moment, she’s reminded of another morning, another meeting… Martha standing in the archway, arms overflowing with flowers, her eyes wide with shock and betrayal as Jonathan Kent stared back at her.

 _Martha…_

She turns slowly to look at her, but her small figure is kneeling upon the threshold. The silky folds of Circe’s gown are clutched in her trembling hands. And all at once, Hippolyta realizes it is not their conversation, the attack on Circe’s island, the injustice of her son’s frenzy that has upset her—no, it is Circe herself: Circe, the beautiful, dangerous sorcerer, the vessel of Hecate, the woman who _once_ was the consort of Hades… the woman who had just been whispering to her, who had been _naked_ in her rooms—

_No… oh, no..._

Circe says something, but her voice is barely a rustle in the background, and then she is gone. Martha doesn’t move.

“Martha…”

Martha doesn’t look up, but Hippolyta can see her shaking, Circe’s discarded gown still gripped in her fists. Hippolyta crosses the room in an instant and kneels before her, reaching out for her.

“Don’t.”

Hippolyta pulls back and stares as her wife grasps almost frantically with the folds of silk in her hands, inspecting each inch of the cloth as if her life depended on it.

“Martha, please, listen to me, there has been news, I—”

“You _what?_ You didn’t do anything wrong?”

Hippolyta recoils, momentarily struck speechless at the bitterness in her voice.

_Oh, Great Hera, she believes…_

Once, Hera herself had warned her of the jealousy of the gods, and over the years, Martha Kent had asked soft, uncertain questions, letting show her doubts of her place at Hippolyta’s side, but this…

“My darling, you cannot believe I have done this thing you accuse me of.”

“I haven’t accused you of _anything_ yet,” Martha huffs, but she turns away, blindly wiping her face on her sleeve.

“Listen to me,” Hippolyta insists, gently taking Martha by the shoulders. “This is not what you think—”

“It’s _fine,_ you Amazons and your… if—if _that_ is something you need, then _fine,_ it’s…” Martha shrugs, her voice shaking despite her effort to feign nonchalance. “I can’t tell you what to do. I won’t.”

Once, Martha might have slapped her across the face, thrown dishes, pushed her out a window, but now, she can’t even stand, can’t even move.

“That is _not_ fine—how, how can you say such a thing, believe such a thing—”

“I’m not doing this now, I can’t, I...” And Martha pushes Hippolyta’s hands away from her and tosses Circe’s crumpled gown into them. For a moment, she stares down at those elegant fingers, that precious ring sparkling amongst all the sickly green, then she turns her face away. _“Go,_ Hippolyta, before I throw up on you.”

“Then throw up on me,” Hippolyta says desperately. “I will not leave until you understand that I have not done this, I have not been—”

“You’re not listening.”

And Martha Kent reaches out a shaking hand and brushes her fingertips over the soft pelt lying across her lover’s shoulders, her touch as tentative as the day they met.

“Go. Just _go._ All right? I’m upset, you’re upset—we’ll talk later.” She tries to make the words sound reasonable and level-headed, but they only sound wounded, and Martha closes her eyes.

_Get out, get out, get out—just one step at a time, just breathe, clear your head, breathe, it’s all right, it’ll be…_

And all at once, she has risen unsteadily to her feet, her body moving as if by its own accord, and she crosses her arms over her churning stomach and begins to shuffle her way across the room, bent over like an old woman.

_Oh, gods, Hippolyta, how could... how could you?_

Hippolyta half rises, but there is the gentle swoop of the black chariot, the sound of Nyctaeus’ concerned whinny, a soft sob, and then Martha is gone.

_Please…_

Hippolyta's head is swimming with conversations, with defenses, with arguments, as if she were being questioned by the entire Senate, and only by laying down the irrefutable evidence of her innocence would she be able to alleviate her beloved’s worries… and somewhere in the back of her mind, Hippolyta hears the door open, and boots against stone, but she does not move. There is the sound of Antiope hissing a sharp command, and then—finally, her sister’s gentle hand on her shoulder.

“My Queen?”

Hippolyta doesn’t look up. Antiope stands motionless beside her, then there is the movement of her waving a hand, and the door shuts with a soft _thump._

“Circe told us of the Lady’s son.” Antiope’s low voice sounding loud in this quiet room. “I assume she did not take it well?”

And Hippolyta gives a small, derisive laugh and reaches up to touch her sister’s fingertips.

“I did not have the chance to tell her.”

Antiope stares down at her, confusion etched over her face, and Hippolyta shakes her head.

_Oh, Antiope…_

“Hippolyta?”

But she pulls away and rises, strolling away to the tall windows. The speck in the sky that is Martha Kent has made its decent, apparently having reached the Gardens of the Lady. In an instant, she could be there, at her side, and put this wrong to right, telling her in no uncertain terms that she is hers, and no one else’s…

But Martha needs time. She needs time, and space to breathe, as a living woman is wont to need. And Hippolyta...

_A warrior fights only for her people… but a Queen fights for everyone._

“We may be attacked soon.”

Antiope shifts, standing a little taller, her helmet clutched a little tighter, gone from concerned sister to ruthless warrior in a split second.

Hippolyta’s wedding ring has caught the light from the windows, and for a moment, she brushes her fingertips over the precious gems, remembering the day Martha had placed it on her hand, the way her face had been beaming with happiness, the way she had breathed those beautiful words into her ear… and then Hippolyta closes her eyes.

Martha may forgive her _today._ She may forget Circe, accept Hippolyta’s story and apologies, and forgive before the moon is high overhead. But she may _never_ forgive herself for the pain they caused her son, and the havoc he has wreaked upon world in the wake of her disappearance…

_What have I done?_

“My Queen, do you truly believe he could break into the Underworld and attack? He walks upon the mortal plane, he cannot—”

“Send five thousand warriors to the Styx, Antiope, I will not take any chances,” Hippolyta says wearily, and then she pauses, dreading the words she must say… but she must take every chance to negotiate peace before war destroys both the living and the dead, and to do that, an ambassador, a being powerful enough to navigate both worlds unscathed is needed.

“Find John Constantine and bring him to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading you made it to the end!!! This chapter was TOUGH to nail down (the original was much more angsty) but as you can see, there will be enough to angst about in the future...
> 
> Also, we're not going full-on Injustice here, but ~~how fun would that be~~ one of my many beefs with JL is that there were NO CONSEQUENCES for Clark being brought back to life with the Motherbox, even after Diana and Arthur (the two people who knew its lore???) insisted that it was a BAD IDEA, so we're exploring some things.
> 
> (Also were the Kents just... hanging out during the events of Injustice? Like, what? How??)
> 
> Also, Circe isn't a villain in WW's current run, but she's been pretty awful to Diana and Hippolyta in the past, so I'm not completely sold on her redemption... (but I write Dr. Poison/Wonder Woman fanfic, so what do I know :P).
> 
> Hang in there! The next chapter's not... _all_ angst...


	24. Accusations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath/Precursor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angsty beginning, fluffy middle, angsty end.
> 
> This week was a _trip._

Martha Kent is dreaming.

Every so often, she shifts, trying to open her eyes so she can gaze blearily out at the distant lanterns hanging around the lake. Her eyes are so sore, swollen shut from crying for however many hours it’s been since she stumbled into that cursed room and saw another woman in her wife’s arms…

The terrible image flashes once more across the insides of her eyelids, and she forces them open. Pain shoots through her entire face, and she gives a pathetic little whimper as she catches a glimpse of the blurred lights before her eyes close once more. They’d strung those lanterns from branch to branch together, she and Hippolyta, and then they’d spent the night in the canoe, rocked to sleep by the soft lap of water. It had been beautiful, peaceful, _perfect…_

She’d first met her wife at a lake. Fell in love with her at a lake. Proposed to her at a lake.

Married her at a river.

Maybe that’s where it went wrong.

Maybe she’s overreacting, maybe it’s just lust, maybe they’ve reached a point in their marriage, a mid-life crisis of sorts, where her goddess wife needs more. Or maybe it was just a one-time thing, a momentary lapse of judgement, a fall into temptation.

Maybe it was nothing.

She’s walking down that shadowed hallway, and she’s dreaming, and she knows she’s dreaming. But it doesn’t make it any less worse when she turns the corner and sees them, both of them on the windowsill, that violet-haired woman practically gnawing at her throat, like those sinners in the frozen lake. She’s so disgustingly beautiful, Martha’s heart seizes up as if its in pain... those hands are grasping roughly at the Queen’s heavy breasts, painted nails sinking into soft flesh, and her hips are driving deeper and deeper into her, and all at once, Martha realizes that this enchantress, this _sorcerer_ is doing what _she_ could never do: give a goddess a child…

_No, Hippolyta… don’t…_

But they can’t hear her—or maybe they don’t want to, and Martha’s trying to move so she can run forward and shout in their ears, so she can drag her away, so she can _leave_ this godforsaken place, but she can’t, it’s as if she’s been strung up by a sticky spider web, and there’s a giant spider creeping up behind her, about to pounce, and all she can do is struggle and weep as Hippolyta groans with pleasure…

_No, you promised. You promised there was no one else. You promised there was no one but me…_

_Martha…_

_No, you don’t get to call out to me. You don’t get to say my name, you don’t get to think of me, not like this, not like this, Hippolyta, don’t…_

_Martha, please..._

_Please what? Take you back? What, so when you get bored with these little floozies, you can come back and fuck an old woman?_

_Wake up, Martha… please, wake up..._

* * *

There’s snow in Martha’s eyes. Aethon snorts in her face, and she mutters a sleepy, _thanks for that,_ and blinks.

Queen Hippolyta is kneeling across from her, peering down at her. And all at once, Martha is aware of her surrounding, of firm horse flesh against her back, of a rough, woolen horse blanket spread clumsily across her body, of silky horse hair against her cheek...

“You’re frozen.”

Hippolyta’s voice is trembling, as if she’s frozen, too.

“The horses kept me warm,” Martha replies, the words sounding terse in her ears, and she winces as she sits up, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“The horses are dead, darling,” Hippolyta murmurs, reaching beside her and gathering something up in her hands. “Here.”

And Martha looks down at the cup of steaming tea in her wife’s hands, and her cold lips and her cold heart give a small twitch for the first time since this morning…

“It’ll warm you up.” Hippolyta’s voice is almost pleading, as if she knows it’s more than a cup of tea, it’s… it’s them. It’s them, their history, their story… their future.

Martha takes the cup and lets the steam curl up against her face. They’re in the middle of a dark field, and she doesn’t remember getting here. It’s only from the glimmer of lanterns just on the horizon that she knows the lake is nearby. The rest of the world is open sky and twinkling stars.

The tea is hot, but not hot enough to burn her tongue as she sips gingerly at it. Earl Grey, sweetened with honey and milk. The Queen had forgone the traditional flavors of New Themyscira, and has chosen to ply her with nostalgia. And in spite of herself, a little glow of contentment settles in her belly, and it is a less cold Martha who sets the empty cup aside.

_God, Hippolyta, you’re good._

“You took your time,” she finally says, pulling the scratchy horse blanket back up over her shoulders.

“You said you needed time,” Hippolyta says mildly, reaching beside her once more and producing a soft quilt.

“Well, it didn’t help,” Martha retorts under her breath. “All I keep seeing is you… and _her.”_

Hippolyta doesn’t reply, but she whispers a command, and the heavy blanket in her hands glows with subtle warmth.

“Here, my darling, it will be more comfortable.”

Martha squirms a moment, then relents and crawls forward, burrowing between the soft folds of fine, Themysciran cotton. Her head pokes out on the other side and settles down into Hippolyta’s lap.

“That was a _trick,”_ she complains, but the quilt is so warm and snug, it’s like lying on the couch in front of the fire after a bitter winter day. Hippolyta gives the faintest of smiles as she strokes her hair, then she bends and presses a light kiss to her forehead, and Martha melts. Those eyes are sparkling with starlight, and she can feel herself beginning to drown...

“Are you cheating on me? With—with anyone?” she asks in a cracked voice, realizing she needs to ask these things before she either falls asleep, or falls deeper in love with this goddess woman who knows her weaknesses better than anyone...

“No.”

Martha sighs and rubs her cheek against Hippolyta’s thigh, then turns slightly and gazes out over the dark field to the valley of stars scattered overhead. “Do you _want_ to?”

“No.”

And Martha feels her shoulders slump with relief, then she pulls her hand out from beneath the quilt and slaps her wife hard across the face. Hippolyta doesn’t even flinch.

“So that _woman_ today, that’s just how you greet visitors in the Embassy, is it?” she snaps, and Hippolyta finally bristles.

“No, Martha Kent, it is not.”

“Who _is_ she? I’m tired of seeing her stupid face every time I close my eyes,” Martha grumbles, turning to bury her own face into Hippolyta’s thigh and nipping lightly at her skin. “I’ve half a mind to hunt her down and show her how we do things in Kansas.”

“Her name is Circe, and she is _dangerous._ You need to stay away from her.”

Martha pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve and blows her nose loudly. “The pig woman? From the stories?”

“Yes.”

“Have you slept with her?”

“I have taken no one since the moment I first saw you—”

“Have you _slept_ with her?” Martha Kent repeats, stuffing her handkerchief back, and Hippolyta looks away, eyes fixed on the shadowed ground.

_No more lies…_

“Yes. Millenia ago, when she visited the Amazons as a princess, before Hecate corrupted her. But that is ancient history, she is my enemy, she has attacked my daughter, my people in vengeance against me for condemning her for her crimes.”

“Why was she being so nice to you today?”

“That is… how she is. She believes her strength lies in her ability to be seen, to be wanted, and then when her victims are ensnared by her wiles, she exerts her true power.”

“I don’t need to know that,” Martha says rudely. “Why was she with _you?”_

“She had nowhere else to go.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Martha snorts, yanking the blanket up over her ears.

“Stop,” Hippolyta murmurs, but her voice has the slightest rumble of authority in it that reminds Martha that’s she’s speaking to a Queen.

“...stop what?”

“You are trying to use anger to mask your pain,” Hippolyta says softly. “I have hurt you, Martha Kent. And I did not intend to hurt you _—never_ intended to hurt you, but I did, and I am sorry.”

An apology is unexpected. _You’re being too sensitive, Martha,_ would have been expected, with that little sigh her mother used to give, or even, _You know I would never lay eyes on another, Martha,_ in Hippolyta’s low, mournful voice: a subtle rebuke, a gentle chastisement at her lack of faith.

But Hippolyta apologizes, she _apologizes,_ and Martha forces herself to take a deep breath.

“I have the right to be angry,” she says in a small voice. “You would’ve been angry, too.”

“Yes. I would have been devastated. But...”

“But _what?”_

“The Amazons are not shy.”

_And human women from Kansas are._

Martha waves a dismissive hand, but she knows the goddess is right. It’s not like she hasn’t been in New Themyscira long enough to know how the women get at mealtimes, and on the training field, and on their way to the temple, and on the _beach._ But Hippolyta has never been one to join them, not like that…

“But I know I must be sensitive to your ways, your customs. I _will_ be,” Hippolyta murmurs, staring down at her fragile wife from another world… another country, another culture, another _century._

Martha huffs. She had an entire speech prepared, but she knows a peace offering when she hears one, and she settles back against Hippolyta’s lap. And for a long moment, they remain in silence, together.

“It’s… it’s not easy being married to you, do you understand that?” Martha says, almost more to herself than to the woman gazing down at her, allowing herself at last to let that shaky vulnerability creep into her voice. “Maybe it _is_ where I’m from, or maybe it would’ve been hard for anyone, being with someone like you... but it’s like everyone down here is in love with you, and you’ve already slept with half of them, and I’m just… poking along trying to pretend I’m worthy of you, and meanwhile, your people have this long history celebrating free love and group love—and I don’t know, and I’m probably supposed to be a good citizen and share you with them, but I _can’t._ I can’t share you, not like _that,_ I can’t, I won’t, I _won’t._ ”

She’s raving and she knows it, but it’s been a long, hellish day, and she’s just tired and upset enough for tears to well in her eyes again for the hundredth time, and she snatches up her handkerchief once more and turns away. Hippolyta looks like her heart is about to break.

“Martha… little one, no one is asking you to do _anything_. I am yours and yours alone by _choice._ ”

“I don’t believe you,” she replies bluntly, waving her soaked handkerchief in the Queen’s face. “People have habits, Hippolyta, you were the leader of the Amazons, their ruler and role model in _all_ things, and you expect me to believe that your interest in—in casual sex just… went away, because you met me?”

“My _interest_ in casual sex disappeared the moment Heracles turned against me,” Hippolyta says mildly, and Martha flinches, but she goes on. “It took decades to see it once more for beautiful thing it is. But the Amazons found ways to heal and move past it, and our rituals, our festivals are some of the ways we celebrate our victory and our joy for each others’ company... and it is pleasurable, of course. But it is not _love,_ at least, not like the love you and I share, Martha Kent. That is why I will have you and only you. The others, they were gentle, and hungry, and adoring, but you… _you_ touch me like there is no one else in the world. You touch me like your hunger and lust can only be sated by me. You touch me, and I love you more than I ever thought it could be possible to love a person. I _love_ you. I _married_ you. Why do you doubt me?”

 _Because I found you in your office today with a naked woman in your lap,_ Martha thinks, but she tugs the cotton blanket over her head and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” she finally says, her voice muffled.

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because I know you would never... I don’t doubt you, not when I think about it. You’re too—too noble. It’s just… me.”

“It is not ‘just you’. Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I know, I know, it’s just, it’s easy to get upset,” Martha mumbles.

“I need you to speak to me when you’re upset,” Hippolyta says gently, and Martha wiggles a little, trying to disguise her discomfort as an attempt to find a better sleeping position on this damningly comfortable quilt. Hippolyta brushes her hair behind her ears and waits patiently for her to speak.

“I don’t want you to worry about me,” she finally says, her fingers tangled with a loose strand of silky gold. “You’re not _supposed_ to worry about me, or know when I’m upset, or listen to me complain, it—I’m not used to that in marriage, being heard. At least not like that.”

Hippolyta bends and touches her nose gently with her own, and Martha finds herself fighting a smile, then she trembles slightly, smothering a giggle.

“Don’t you _like_ it when I worry about you, darling?”

And Martha blushes, then hides her face against Hippolyta’s soft belly. The Queen’s nimble fingers tickle lightly at her sides, and she squeals and seizes at her hands, holding them far away from her.

“...maybe.”

 _“Oh, little one…”_ Hippolyta murmurs with a small laugh as Martha settles down at last, nestling her cheek against her thigh and closing her eyes. Aetheon is snorting in his sleep in the background, but otherwise, the night is quiet, peaceful, beautiful... and just as she’s about to drift off, Martha feels the softest of kisses on her cheek, and for once, it’s not her goddess wife, but the gentle brush of snow…

_Oh, darling… are you sad?_

But snowflakes fall silently around them, embedding into the cold ground, and Martha is warm and cozy beneath her quilt, and she’s perfectly content to stay here, with her head in her wife’s lap, until the sun rises once more. Soon the ground will be covered in snow, the world still and sparkling.

_Soon it will be Christmas day..._

“Martha…”

_“Mmmph.”_

“We need to talk.”

Martha opens one eye, then shuts it once more.

“We _already_ talked,” she slurs, her voice coming out more grumpily than she intended. “That’s enough talking for a while.”

“I’m sorry, darling, this can’t wait,” Hippolyta whispers, stroking her hair.

 _“Fine,”_ Martha sighs, dragging herself up into sitting position, keeping the soft quilt wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and then she looks expectantly at her solemn wife.

But Hippolyta doesn’t speak for a long moment. And she is refusing to look at her, even as her elegant fingers brush up and down over Martha’s arm.

“It… it will upset you,” Hippolyta says quietly.

“Oh, _Lyta,_ just tell me,” Martha sighs, flapping a tired hand. “I don’t have any more tears left today.”

Hippolyta glance over at her weary face, then gives a reluctant nod.

“A woman arrived today, after you left the Embassy,” she begins in a quiet voice. “She had been killed by her... husband.”

“Oh, _gods.”_ Martha reaches a comforting hand up to her, touching that cold cheek with her fingertips. “That’s awful... did you speak with her?”

“Yes.”

But Hippolyta doesn’t look grieved, at least, not grieved as an Amazon, as a woman who once had been killed by man, betrayed by a lover… she only looks disturbed. Apprehensive. And strangely, fearful, of this moment in time, of this conversation, of _her._

“What is it? Is something…”

“She was someone you knew.”

 _“What?!”_ Martha recoils, the quilt falling in waves around her torso, but she doesn’t even notice the rush of cold that clamps around her, her mind too busy racing, thinking, flashing through faces: the other women who worked at the diner, the ladies from church, the wives from the neighboring farms… “Killed by her hus—who was this, who was she?!”

And Hippolyta finally looks her in the eye. And her gaze is steady as she says in a soft, tentative voice,

“It was Lois Lane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm so excited to write some mother-in-law Ma Kent! :D
> 
> I'm so braindead, I don't have much else to say but thanks for reading!! Have a great weekend!


	25. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A whole lot of visitors (but not THAT visitor).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst and fluff and monsters.

  


_Find the Superman. Subdue him and bring him here at once._

John Constantine left the Underworld immediately, the House of Mystery disappearing with a wink from the slushy ground at the bottom of the Embassy, but even if he reappears on Earth directly at Superman’s side, it will be months, if not decades before they return.

Spring arrives, drenched in a stretch of endless rain.

Antiope marches into her sister’s receiving rooms every morning, her boots and knees and armor splattered with mud, and more often than not, she approaches the Queen as she stares blankly out the window. Part of her hates seeing her sister like this, broken, silent. They fought side by side for the right to speak, to smile, to experience all of life, and here she remained, broken once more by the world of man. And yet, she knows Hippolyta’s lifeless heart is weeping with love, justice, compassion. She would not be the Queen if it were not.

“Hippolyta.”

Antiope rests a calloused hand on her sister’s shoulder, and her touch is firm, gentle.

“General.”

“Any news?”

Hippolyta’s vacant eyes are answer enough. Antiope bows her head, then grasps her elbow, drawing her away from this room, from this window, from this watching and waiting for her doom.

“Come, sister.”

* * *

It feels like a facade.

Hippolyta carries on, fulfilling her Queenly duties, business as usual. She kisses Martha awake in the morning, and they embrace one another as passionately as ever at night. But sometimes she goes still when she thinks Martha isn’t looking, and other times there is a cold emptiness in her eyes, as if her mind is wandering elsewhere, somewhere full of grief and regret.

_Hippolyta, this is not your fault._

But Hippolyta can see things that Martha cannot. Things she refuses to speak about. And those are the moments Martha presses the gentlest of kisses to her lover’s forehead, and then she leaves, leaving Hippolyta to her thoughts, to pray to her gods, to consult her Oracle.

Martha fills the strange, tense days by playing hostess. She walks her gardens, one hand on Lois’ arm, the other rising occasionally to point out her favorite plants, the fountains and stones she put in, the animals dashing to and fro. The snow has melted away, but Hippolyta has been unconsolable, and the sun rarely shines in full. Still, the flowers reveal their brilliant faces to the world, and the rain falls steady upon them until they, too, are weeping with sadness.

Lois hasn’t spoken yet about her death.

_I’m not ready… in fact, I’m not even sure what happened..._

And that is all she will say. But sometimes her eyes glaze over, as if she’s not quite present, and that’s when Martha leads her back to the guest rooms and insures that she has all she needs: food, clothes, hot water in the bath, scrolls to read. And then she withdraws, leaving her daughter-in-law in peace.

There is nothing else to be done.

They had gone immediately to see her, on the night that Martha falsely claimed she had no more tears left to cry. Lois had been surprisingly alert, but Martha supposed it was the reporter in her, that never-ending curiosity at new environments, new stories to uncover, new truths to tell.

_She’s in shock,_ Martha had realized as her daughter-in-law plied her with questions, strange questions, questions of how she and Hippolyta had met, how they fell in love, how they made it work. It was Hippolyta who had eventually asked for the night’s end, politely citing early morning business, and not until the door to the guest rooms was shut and well behind them did Martha Kent allow herself to dissolve into tears.

When they made it to their bedchambers, they had sat and discussed, openly and frankly, their options. Martha had wanted to leave at once, find her son, reassure him that she was _fine,_ and demand to know what madness had come over him that he would raise a hand against the woman he loved, even by accident… and Hippolyta had listened, and then bowed her head in that way that Martha knew meant she was suppressing her thoughts, and Martha had thrown up her hands and ordered her Queen to speak her mind…

And she’d told her a story.

A story of old. A story of three boxes of immense power…

She told her of how the entire world rose up against the invaders using these boxes: Amazons, Atlanteans, humans, aliens… of how, when the battle was over, countless scientists and kings and gods fell trying to harness and control this power, so volatile and alive it was within its own right; how, in a fit of despair, the peoples of Earth had agreed to never use them, to keep them in safe strongholds, guarded, never to harm another in the name of good or evil.

And Martha had listened, growing more confused by the minute, her head swimming with names and dates and jargon, and just as she was about to stomp her foot like a child and demand to know what all this ancient history had to do with what’s happening _now,_ Hippolyta had looked her in the eye and said,

_The humans used a Motherbox to bring your son back to life. It may be that this is his true self, that he is simply reacting to your disappearance. But he was taken forcibly, reanimated with technology rather than by following the rules of life and death, without making the necessary sacrifices, as I did with Diana. And the Motherbox... it is a living thing, it destroys as it creates..._

And Hippolyta’s voice trailed off as Martha walked away.

Too many words.

To much history, ancient history, things she didn’t understand, things she didn’t want to hear about, not right _now._

_God, life was simpler when the biggest thing I had to worry about was whether my wife was cheating on me..._

“So you’re saying he’s—but it can’t, it, I saw him, we both saw him, after they brought him back, he was fine, he was perfectly...”

It was then that Martha had to stop.

And she had covered her face with her hands, shaking her head. It had been hard enough, living in a world where her little boy could lift cars and run faster than the speed of light. It had been hard enough when they brought back the bloodied body of her son, her untouchable son. It had been hard enough when he reappeared, Clark, in the flesh, reassuring her that it was really him. But this…

“Have… have there been others… Hippolyta? Have there been more deaths—casualties?”

But she knows even before the Goddess of Death can answer. She had seen it with her own eyes, her son, Clark Kent, his face broadcasted over every screen, his image flickering across even her own ancient flip-phone…

_Darkseid is Self… Self is Darkseid._

The Anti-Life Equation, the power of the Motherbox, coupled with the power of Krypton…

_Darkseid…_

Hippolyta had looked steadily at her, and said nothing.

And Martha had wrung her shaking hands, trembling from head to toe, and then she’d slipped down to her knees and burst into tears.

* * *

_I had a dream. The world was ending._

She had been there when the Batman said goodbye to his butler, a man she had mistaken at first for his father. _Alfred, if I don’t come back…_ he’d begun, but the old man had shaken his head. _Go, Master Wayne. Don’t worry about me._

Martha stops to gaze up at the sunlight struggling through the fog, then hurries up the Embassy steps. Some welcome news must have arrived today. Hippolyta had sent summons far and wide, even to the darkest corners of Tartarus, and they came as a steady trickle, monsters and men, aliens and animals. Martha doesn’t understand most of what they have to say about Apokolips, but she knows that her wife is going to make it right, make everything right.

She is so busy basking in the glow of sun and its soft reassurance that all will be well, she doesn’t see Hippolyta’s visitors at first. And when she does, she barely stops from letting out a shriek of terror at the sight of three hulking monsters crouching before the throne, sightless and webbed, thousands of sharp teeth dripping with saliva. The only thing keeping her from running screaming back into the hall is the fact that Lois is at the Queen’s left hand, her face pale, but as determined and fearless as one can possibly look when staring at three creatures straight out of a horror movie. Only when Martha has clapped her hand over her mouth and forced herself to take several short breaths does she notice Antiope sitting close beside Lois, quietly translating as Hippolyta questions the beasts in their native tongue.

_Atlantis was the envy of all, once,_ Hippolyta is saying casually after the monsters have been escorted out, their bellies heavy with pulpy fish flesh, a gift of thanks from their Queen. _If Arthur is half the ruler his mother was, it shall be made so once more, in time…_

And then her voice trails off at the sight of Martha’s petrified face staring as the monsters lumber down the hall, chattering together in rasping, _chilling_ voices, the stuff of nightmares—and the Queen is at her side at once.

“Oh, _Martha…_ you’re trembling.” Hippolyta leads her quickly to her seat, hands clasping her sides, keeping her steady. Lois hands her a glass of water, but Martha waves it away.

“I’m _fine,_ I’m fine, _God,_ Hippolyta, that’s the second time you’ve scared me out of my wits in this room,” she sputters accusingly, when she’s finally able to speak. “No, Lois, I’m _fine,”_ she says impatiently, brushing the reporter’s grip off her arm, like she’s an old woman who needs support.

“Don’t insult our guests, Martha, they cannot help how they look,” Hippolyta chides gently, and Martha scoffs.

“Listen, if you’re not careful, I’m going to stop coming in here to see you at _all,”_ she snaps, jabbing a finger in Hippolyta’s direction, and rising to her feet to watch from the window. If she doesn’t see those things leave, they’re going to be hiding in every corner, every shadow, every pool of water for the next _month._ The Queen raises an eyebrow, but her lip is curled just slightly with amusement. Lois glances from woman to woman, then quickly busies herself with collecting her notes and then sees herself out, waving away their invitations to stay for tea. Antiope stays a moment longer to confer with the Queen, then she, too, leaves, nodding solemnly, but secretly winking at Martha before she marches into the fog.

“There they are, there they are, _gods,_ how did they even fit in here, they’re _huge,”_ Martha breathes, craning her neck to watch as they ooze their way down the Embassy steps, passing a regiment of completely unfazed Amazonian guards. Next thing she knows, Godzilla is going to emerge from the fog and Hippolyta will probably give him an entire city to eat, or King Kong will crash through the forest and seize up all the pretty women—

“Tea?” Hippolyta asks quietly, and the sound of steaming water being poured into porcelain cups almost makes Martha jump out of her skin.

“...or maybe some whisky,” she says in a shaky voice, crossing her arms tightly as Hippolyta sets the teapot down and brings the tray over to where she’s glued to the window. “What the hell _are_ those things?”

“They were formerly of Atlantis. Now, their kind lives in the Trench, feeding on the flesh of those who die above… and those who are sent there as punishment.”

“I _knew_ there was a reason I never liked the ocean,” Martha mutters, shivering. Hippolyta gives her a small smile and reaches out to cup her cheeks.

“Do you judge them? They only seek survival, as do us all.”

“But their _teeth.”_ But she says no more as Hippolyta bends and kisses her protests away.

“Their teeth were a necessary evolution in order to properly consume their food source. Do not be so quick to—”

“Oh, _God,_ Hippolyta, don’t tell me you slept with their ruler, their queen, too?” Martha says all at once, choking on her own breath at the horrible image—if she thought Hippolyta sleeping with a beautiful sorceress was disgusting, it’s _nothing_ compared to this. “Wait, don’t tell me, I don’t—I don’t want to know.”

“No, little one… there were much _nicer_ distractions at the center of the earth.”

Martha scowls, already knowing the story of how Hippolyta would pay visits to the beautiful, exiled queen of Atlantis, and how they would pass the time…

“Not just her,” Hippolyta murmurs, seeing the look on her face and pulling her to a low couch and into her lap. Martha huffs, but Hippolyta wraps her arms around her and presses a kiss to the top of her head, and her frightened trembling wanes slightly. “It was there that I also met the Karathen, the giant mother of all horrors… two miles long, more ancient than I, absolutely fearless, and her _tentacles,_ she had thousands of them, all covered in these little—what do you call them? Suctions?”

“You are _terrible,”_ Martha groans, but she’s laughing, and Hippolyta kisses her nose.

“I believe we are close,” she says softly, looking into her eyes. “There are many who wish to help your son, who have ideas on how to combat the power of the Motherbox. We will succeed.”

Martha gazes back, then snuggles against her, tucking her head beneath Hippolyta’s chin, enjoying the warm intimacy that has been lacking between them in these last few months of panic.

“Tell me more about this monster mother,” Martha murmurs, wanting to forget about the horrible situation that is her son for a moment, to bask in the light of her lover’s teasing smile for another second, just another precious second… “I suppose these little flings of yours happened underwater, did they?”

“Hmm, yes,” Hippolyta says happily, taking a small sip of tea and then carefully setting aside her cup and wrapping her arms around her once more. “She was guarding the body of the first king of Atlantis, and as I was not there to steal or attempt to claim the throne, we simply amused each other with intriguing conversations, and you _know_ what happens when a beautiful woman plys me with intriguing conversation.”

“You make her wait for a year before you let her see you naked?” Martha snorts, but she slips her arms around Hippolyta’s neck and kisses her hard, and the Queen’s lips smile against hers.

“No, little one… I only do that with lustful little humans. They must be taught that there are times when it is appropriate to be lustful, and times when it is _very_ appropriate to be lustful.”

“Hmm, and what time is it now?”

“Afternoon tea,” Hippolyta says, abruptly pulling away. Martha stares as she turns to the tray beside them and gathers up her cup once more.

_“Stop,_ Hippolyta, God, you are the _worst,”_ she protests, tugging in exasperation at her wicked wife as she sips primly at her drink.

“Stop? Stop what?” Hippolyta says, leaning in again and lightly biting her lower lip, and Martha groans.

“Stop _teasing_ me,” she grumbles, and Hippolyta chuckles, slipping her arms around her once more.

“You know, if I had known that monsters made you wiggle like this, I would have invited them here long ago. This is a delightful discovery.” And she lets out a hearty laugh as Martha shrieks in false outrage and tries to escape her strong grip.

“You— _You…”_

_“Calm_ yourself, darling.”

“I am _not_ turned on by—by _monsters—”_

“Your Majesty, a visitor for you.”

_“Mmmph,_ let them wait, Myrrha,” Hippolyta murmurs between the kisses Martha is furiously planting on her to keep her from spouting any more nonsense. “The Queen and I are… preoccupied.”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty, she is—she is not…” And Myrrha’s voice trails off as determined footsteps march their way across the floor, and then stop abruptly, as if in shock, or perhaps horror.

“Don’t tell me, that’s the Karathen now,” Martha whispers with a smothered giggle, struggling to extract herself from Hippolyta’s grasp now that they have company. _They're_ _just like tentacles_ , she thinks with a shiver as she pushes those strong arms away and they snake right back around her. But Hippolyta pulls her close, kisses her forehead, then gently releases her with a melancholy smile.

“No, little one... it is only Diana.”

And Martha Kent tumbles out of her lover’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE THE TRENCH WHO LIVE IN A PLACE THAT IS ALSO CALLED THE TRENCH.
> 
> Also, I bought Aquaman on DVD this week and loved it even more than when I saw it in theaters! :) (Give the damn Trench a better name, though!)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!! I hope you're enjoying these new developments and little winks to Aquaman. Martha is _petrified_ by the ocean, so it seemed like a fun way to develop her and the breadth of the Underworld. (Also, the cliffhanger in this chapter is lowkey for miss_belivet for how she ended her Marlyta fic >.< But I am SO excited to be writing Diana again, it's been a looooong time.)
> 
> ~~Queen Hippolyta 100% fucked the Kara-"Julie Andrews"-then it's canon now boom~~


	26. Diana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DIANA.
> 
> **DIANA.**
> 
> _**DIANA.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Angst

She is here, in the flesh. Heart beating, skin flushed and alive.

Her expression hides nothing, her pretty lips parted in shock, eyes wide with fear, and her gaze lingers over Martha Kent’s embarrassed face, as if she's not quite sure what she’s looking at… and Hippolyta rises, a comforting hand resting against her wife’s back as she stares at her daughter, relief flooding her like a rush of oxygen.

_Oh, Diana…_

She still sees that stubborn, inquisitive child who would pop right back up after Hippolyta had tucked her into bed, the one who would beg her, question her, challenge her, _berate_ her without fear. Her little miracle from the gods, her baby formed from Themysciran clay and her own tears of longing for a child...

“Princess.”

And all at once, Diana raises her head, as if remembering her place.

“My Queen,” she murmurs, dropping to her knees, and then bowing low. “...Goddess.”

_“Diana...”_ Hippolyta whispers, and then she strides forward, weeping openly, skipping the ceremonious greeting altogether. “My daughter, _my little sun and stars…”_

Diana rises to her feet and embraces her with a cry of _Mother,_ and all is well.

* * *

No matter how hard she tried, Diana had never managed to attain that cold, guarded, battle-weary mask of the Amazons. She was always too innocent, too anxious, too honest, too trusting. She stares back at her now like a child, her emotions clearly on display, as if she were verbally articulating each one as they came and went: confusion, shock, mortification, and, faintly, as if she’s trying to squash it altogether, jealousy.

_You have been my greatest love…_

After all this time, after everything, her years in Man’s World, her time away from Themyscira, her centuries in the Underworld, she’s still a little girl who needs her mother’s love and attention and approval.

“So it is true.”

Diana has reluctantly pulled herself from Hippolyta’s embrace, and then she turns away, hands outstretched, and she gathers Martha up into her arms and kisses both her blushing cheeks in the manner of the humans, and all at once, she is not Diana, Princess of Themyscira greeting a fellow Amazon in the Queen’s Embassy, but she is Diana Prince, curator at the Louvre, one of the most fashionable figures in all of Paris, wife herself to a questionably human woman…

“I trust that my mother has made you feel welcome amongst our people?”

“Oh, yes, yes—the goddesses are a bit much, but, you know, they wouldn’t be the goddesses if they weren’t,” Martha stumbles, staring at the ground like she’s trying to read it. She had been nervous meeting with Lois for the first time since her relocation to the strangest of homes, but this is _Diana,_ one of the greatest legends amongst both the living and the dead, the only child of her wife, the one being who is likely more important to Hippolyta than she… and all at once, she’s back in the Batcave, a stranger amongst gods and heroes, and she dares a pleading glance at her beloved.

But Hippolyta looks just as uncertain as she, although anyone who doesn’t know her well would simply see a proud Queen, eyes brimming with happiness and amusement.

“Come, you two. I can see this conversation will require more than just tea.”

* * *

“What news from Earth?”

Myrrha has cleared away the last of the tiny dishes: bowls and platters for spreads, cheeses, yogurts, olives, fruit, and bread. Diana had scraped up the last drops of stew from her bowl of _cocido madrileño_ and had given her friend a kiss as she collected the princess’ dishes. Hippolyta had ordered a lavish lunch that included all of her daughter’s favorite foods from her childhood on Themyscira, but she had also included a few extras: those spicy, strongly-flavored recipes that Isabel Maru had taught to the cooks during her years on the island.

The last two hours have been spent in a strange clash of two worlds: Martha Kent sitting beside her on a low couch, Diana lounging across from them, listening in polite silence as they tell her their story. It’s still afternoon, and Martha has only picked at her food, too busy describing their meeting and romance and marriage to truly indulge herself, and Hippolyta knows the woman is tense, and she refuses to relax, no matter how many times Hippolyta reached out and brushes a comforting hand over her stiff shoulders.

“Earth is still recovering from Darkseid, the parademons,” Diana says absently, downing a full draught of wine in one gulp, and Hippolyta bites her lip in order to stop herself from snapping, _Drink it_ slowly, _Diana, or you’ll be lightheaded until supper._ But Diana tosses aside the tankard and stretches. “They did very little structural damage, unlike many of the other invasions, but the people are frightened, suspicious. They feel that can no longer trust their own minds.”

“Is that what’s happened to Clark?”

And Diana blinks. Apparently she was expecting to ease into this topic, but Martha didn’t have the chance to ease into parenthood, or widowhood, or Queenhood, and she’s certainly not going to start taking things slowly _now._

“You have already been attacked twice, Mrs. Kent. He is afraid for you, and rightly so,” Diana says quietly, swinging her long legs over the edge of the couch and sitting up. She may be in New Themyscira, where tradition dictates conversation be carried out in comfort, but Diana Prince would never fling herself over the couch in the Kents’ living room, and she isn’t about to now.

“Hippolyta says you used technology from Apokolips to bring him back to life.” The word rolls strangely from Martha’s tongue, even though it translates perfectly in English. “That he’s begin controlled by—by a machine, a machine from this place.”

“The Motherbox—yes, Bruce...” Diana murmurs, looking embarrassed. “He believed that bringing back Superman was the only way to defeat Steppenwolf.”

Martha scowls at the title. The last time she heard that name drowning her ears, the TV had been on in the diner, and news anchors had been gleefully reporting on her son’s trial, like he was some kind of criminal…

After he died, she had changed all the TVs to the cooking channel in a rare fit of rage, and no one had dared to change them back.

“How did you even get his _body?_ We buried him next to his father, I was there when they closed the casket, the whole Superman funeral in Metropolis was a sham, an empty box.”

Diana’s gaze darts away, and Hippolyta raises her head. This story, at least, she has not heard. When she arrived in Man’s World, she had been so caught up in her daughter’s death, in saving her from Hades, she had not stopped to hear or consider the details of Superman’s return to life.

“The Queen asked you a question, Diana,” Hippolyta says in a low voice, and Diana raises her head obediently.

“We dug him up from his grave,” Diana says, her voice reluctant, but she faces Martha bravely, like a warrior. “We retrieved his body from Smallville and brought it to the Kryptonian ship in Metropolis, where the powers of Genesis Chamber could be combined with the power of the Motherbox to bring him back to life. He saved hundreds of civilian lives when we defeated Steppenwolf, if not thousands. He—”

“And how many has he _killed_ since then?”

Diana flinches and looks away. She does not answer.

“You talk about him like he’s a _weapon,”_ Martha goes on, waving a shaking hand in her direction. “I’m so tired of—you talk about him like he’s a gun in your arsenal, like something you put together and launched. He’s not like that, he’s a _boy—_ oh, I know he’s a grown-up man now, but you people, you act like it was his _responsibility_ to fight. Why, even when _you_ died, they talked about you like you were just doing your duty, like it was your job, like you’d served your purpose out there. Why didn’t your friends put their energy and brains—since it’s clear you have plenty of those—into trying to _destroy_ the Motherboxes instead of raising up a dead man to throw into a fight? Suli, their queen, the Apokoliptian queen was here the other day, she said the Motherbox has the power of transport, of—of things that are less invasive than shocking a body back to life. And that poor robot boy certainly would’ve been able to help with figuring that out. _Anything_ else. Anything but that.”

“It was not the best decision, I agree,” Diana says in a low voice, but her eyes are not angry, only sad. “I tried to tell them that this was not the way, Arthur and I both, but it is not my place to lead the tribes of man. Only to protect, when I can.”

“The deed has been done, Martha,” Hippolyta says softly. “We cannot speculate on the past. We can only do what we can to heal your son and deliver justice to those whose lives have been destroyed.”

Martha huffs and turns away, burying her face against Hippolyta’s fur-draped shoulder like a child, apparently having said her bit.

“The league do not look kindly upon you either, Mother,” Diana says, even as her eyes are fixed on Martha’s shivering figure. “They blame you for triggering Superman’s rage. They will want justice of their own.”

Hippolyta looks down to where Martha is burrowing angrily against her, and brushes a kiss to the top of her head, wrapping a strong arm around her.

“How long did it take?” she says calmly, taking Diana by surprise. Apparently she'd been bracing herself for her mother's hot temper, for her ever-present anger against men and their meddling ways.

“What?”

“When did he discover she was gone?”

“This morning, about an hour ago. He’s been going mad ever since, it’s all the league can do to placate him and keep the people safe—”

“She’s been gone for a week.”

“...what?”

“She has been gone for a week, Earth time,” Hippolyta repeats. “Could he not have been bothered to _check_ on her during that time? If she must be returned to Earth for him, he will have to do better than that.”

“She must be returned to Earth because she is _alive,_ Mother.”

“I’m not going back to Earth,” Martha Kent mumbles, and Diana flashes a suspicious look toward the back of her head.

“Peace, Martha,” Hippolyta says quietly, but there’s an underlying urgency in her voice as she turns back to face her daughter. “I did not plead for centuries before the Furies only to have her seized away. I have followed the rules set before me by those who govern the passage between life and death, and her place is here, she belongs here—”

“One day she will be dead and belong to you by right, but until then, you cannot—”

“She is not _mine,”_ Hippolyta hisses, drawing herself up, leaving Martha to cower on the couch, and Diana to press herself back against the wall as he advances. “She does not belong to me, or to _anyone._ She is here because she has _chosen_ to be here.”

“So it may be, but she has no _right_ to be here.” Diana rises, tentatively reaching out toward her. Hippolyta refuses to look at her, but she does not remove her daughter’s hand as it grasps lightly at her elbow. “You know the rules as well as I, My Queen. She cannot stay.”

Hippolyta turns sharply away. And for a long moment, both Diana and Martha watch as she strolls angrily to the window and glares out the polished glass to the rain-soaked world. The clouds are beginning to seep once more across the bright sky.

“I am not here to threaten you, Mother. If there were any other way…”

_I know. At least, I know I cannot stop you._

Once, she had watched as her daughter marched away from her, marching off to war and all of the horrors of Man’s World that she had devoted her life to shielding her from. Once, she had driven her own blade through her beating heart to bring her daughter back to life. But the land of the dead is not so easily impressed by such sacrifices. As their ruler, Hippolyta could have had her choice of any being in her realm: man, woman, alien, god. She could do away with the landscape altogether, as Hades once did, and build towers and cities of tormented souls. She could send the most pious priests to eternal torment, and install the worst sinners into places of honor and comfort.

But she can only bring death to the living.

That power to heal, to mend, and to nurture life had been stripped from her the moment she took her last breath.

And despite everything, despite the blessing of the Furies, despite holding herself back at every turn so that Martha was the first one to step forward in all of their ventures together, despite the lengths she has gone to ensure that Martha can leave this world at any moment, the efforts she made so that when the people told their story, they could _never_ say that the Goddess of Death had lured her Queen into a web of death and trapped her there by force… the truth is that Martha is alive. She is alive, and living out her days in the land of death.

_Did you not think of that before you seized her, O Goddess, or did you simply allow lust to overtake your senses… as usual?_

“I did not intend for this to happen,” Hippolyta says at last, and her voice is heavy with grief. “When I called upon her after the war, she asked me to bring her here. And so I did. I did not intend for her to stay. I thought perhaps she would ask to leave within a week. But she did not. And she… she is content here. We both are.”

Hippolyta looks up, and her eyes are almost pleading as Diana looks solemnly back at her.

“Surely the damage to Earth is less so than that of _your_ great love.”

And Diana gives a small, guilty smile, but it is quickly erased as she becomes serious once more.

“I will stand at your side and do my best to convince them, but the living world is in turmoil… they believe you have stolen her away, out of vengeance,” she says quietly. “They are prepared to go to war with you to bring her back. So many of them have lost parents of their own, I am afraid they...”

“There will be no war.”

Diana stares at her, but Hippolyta does not meet her gaze. And cold realization trickles into her, the realization that her mother has already made her decision, and had likely made that decision before she ordered the black chariot to descend upon that moonlit farm in Kansas. She had known before it even started that this story would end in grief, and yet, she had gone forward in hopes of a sliver of happiness.

_“Mother…”_

And all at once, she is reminded of another conversation, the night she returned to Themyscira, standing on a cliff overlooking the dark sea, pleading with her mother to understand...

_You will spend your entire life loving that woman, decades upon decades, upon centuries- for millennia, you will never be satisfied again... I want you to be happy. And she will bring you grief._

_She will bring me grief_ because _she made me happy. I cannot live as you lived, Mother—in fear. I do not fear pain—but I do fear a life without love. No matter how fleeting that love may be._

“...but you can’t.”

And both women turn to look at the small figure staring up at them from the couch. And for the first time today, Martha Kent sounds truly frightened. Not even when the Trench rose to their full height and screeched so loudly that the windows shook did she look so terrified as this... and Hippolyta closes her eyes as that soft, vulnerable, _human_ voice trembles.

“You can’t, you can’t let them, you won’t let them take me away, will you, Hippolyta? … _Hippolyta?”_

But the Queen does not answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The angst has finally revealed itself, and we are in for a RIDE.
> 
> 2) Thank you so much for reading! I'm amazed at how many people are still hanging on to this fic, even 26 chapters in!
> 
> 3) I feel like I haven't written Hippolyta and Diana really talking since Hatred, so that's why that little nod was in there. :)
> 
> 4) I know a bunch of you want more Antiope content, so we'll see her and Diana's reunion in the next chapter, and Martha will confront Hippolyta on her whole "withholding information in order to protect a loved one" strategy...
> 
> Thanks again for reading!!! :D


	27. You Make Me the Thief of Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: ANGST
> 
> Also some unnecessary JFA exposition because reasons

  


_“Martha… little one, please...”_

She doesn’t reply.

She can’t.

She’s as paralyzed as if John Constantine had cast a spell over her, frozen as if she’d walked naked out of that igloo into the howling storm, sleet roaring towards her like metal to a magnet.

She’s falling backwards into the open ocean, surrounded by nothing but water… she’s staring up at the dimming sunlight, reaching up for it with a desperate hand, mouth open in a silent scream, but all she can do is watch as it gradually becomes fainter and fainter, as the darkness rises slowly around her, until the light is completely gone, and she’s surrounded on every side by the deep press of nothingness…

_Hippolyta, my dear, my darling, my blazing sun that gives my dark world warmth and light and meaning…_

“I can’t.”

And Hippolyta doesn’t move as Martha turns her back, and pulls the covers tightly around herself as she curls up on the opposite side of the bed—and all at once, she’s in Daniel Fordman’s hospital room, and he’s smiling, trying to be brave, trying to be strong, but she can see the fear in his eyes: a boy, still afraid of death, afraid of the cancer eating away at his lungs…

_I can’t,_ she’d sobbed, clutching his hand, giving in to weakness, even though she’d promised over and over again that she would be strong for her dying husband, if nothing else, she would be strong for him—

Or when she’d woken up to an empty bed the morning after Jonathan’s funeral, and the sun had been glowing softly on the horizon, and her husband had been lying in a box in the ground, and the farm was beginning to stir, and the fields needed to be weeded, and the farmhands needed to be paid, and Clark needed a new outfit for his graduation…

_I can’t,_ she’d whispered up to the ceiling, paralyzed, motionless, watching as the shafts of light slowly worked their way across the weathered wood, and that cold realization finally began to trickle in, the realization that Jonathan was dead, and somehow, the world was still spinning, and she was expected to spin along with it…

Or the moment Hippolyta knelt before her and took her hands and told her in a low voice that they were coming, they were coming to take her away, and there was nothing she could or would do to stop them, and Martha had screamed, and she had kicked and punched and sobbed and demanded she take it back, take it back, like the goddess she was, a goddess who bowed to the will of _no_ man—she was the greatest fighter amongst the Amazons, the greatest warrior in Hades, the defeater of Darkseid, of Heracles, of the very demon army who once held this entire world in captivity, but for all that greatness, she wouldn’t even _try_ to fight for them—

But in the end, she’d found herself in her wife’s arms, wailing into her shoulder like a baby, her face buried in soft furs, and Hippolyta weeping silently against her, and Martha had kissed her tears away and begged her to let her stay.

_I can’t._

_I can’t._

_I can’t live without you._

* * *

“Well, this takes me back.”

The sound of metal clashing against metal sears across Diana’s vision, and she leaps to attention just as Antiope shoves her none-too-gently to the ground.

“You, staring up at your mother for approval, and me trying to _teach_ you.”

And in spite of herself, Diana smiles and meets Antiope’s attack with ease, twisting the sword in her own hand, and sending the Amazonian general back a few paces as she scrambles once more to her feet. Her aunt had been making her way up the Embassy steps just as Diana had been unceremoniously making her way down, leaving Hippolyta to explain herself to her wife in peace. And Antiope had taken one look at her niece’s miserable face and led her to the training field.

But Diana’s glee at deflecting her aunt’s attack is diminished as raised voices reach her ears, and she glancing up once more at the palace. The sound of Martha Kent screaming curses in fluent Ancient Greek has not stopped for several minutes, and neither of the Queens have bothered to close their windows or move to a more isolated location.

“They were so happy.”

Antiope sighs and mimes thrusting her blade directly into Diana’s heart as she makes her way across the field.

“What?”

“Before I arrived. They were content, and the Queen was happier than I have ever seen her before...”

“They’ve been through worse before, those two,” Antiope says, though her eyebrows are drawn together as she steps up beside her. “They’re both hot-headed and stubborn and impatient: they’ll fight for hours, and then make up sometime in the middle of the night, and then fight all morning, and make up again by the noon meal, and that will be the end of it… don’t blame yourself, Diana. They’ve been on edge ever since Circe arrived.”

And with that, Antiope clasps her shoulder and scuffs pointedly at the grass with a sturdy boot.

“Are you conceding?”

Diana turns reluctantly and raises her sword once more. Antiope can see she’s still distracted, but she is doing her best to focus on the task at hand, as any good Amazon warrior is expected to do.

Perhaps training is not what she needs right now, but Antiope is not well-versed in the art of consolation—that was Menalippe’s area of expertise. Antiope’s cure is an elbow to the eye, a harsh but invigorating rebuke, a three-day test of survival in the wilderness. Once, Diana would have wanted for nothing more than to be on the field, in the open air, a blade in her hands. But she’s different than the young girl who trained with her all those years ago, different than the warrior woman who appeared in the Underworld so long ago, a fierce battle cry still on her lips as she pursued the headless Apokoliptian general even into death. For Antiope, those days are now a tattered memory, a legend in the Underworld, immortalized through sculptures and paintings, but for Diana…

“How much time has passed since you returned to Earth?” Antiope asks, panting slightly as Diana ducks, raising a gauntleted arm to block the flurry of strikes bearing down upon her.

“A month—four weeks.”

“And you’re settling?”

“It was three thousand years, Antiope…” Diana replies with a wry smile, but her eyes cloud over, and for a moment it seems as if she wants to go on, but she only leaps up to avoid the rope slinging through air toward her, and says, “It will take longer than a month to adjust.”

“Diana…” Antiope murmurs, her voice softening for the first time, but Diana shakes her head.

“But we will recover, eventually… and Isabel has helped. She went through it too, went through much of it with me. And the rest of the league, especially those who were captured by the parademons, we’re all recovering, trying to make sense of the world.”

“When Steppenwolf first attacked, the peoples of Earth rose up, rallied around leaders who could help them to heal, move on. It may be necessary once more.”

Diana shrugs her strong shoulders, and Antiope has to look away, as if the fate of mankind is a visible burden upon the young goddess’ back.

“And that girl, the child of Anti-Matter and life—has she started her training? Mena said she was welcome…” she says instead, trying to keep her voice casual as Menalippe’s precious name slips from her lips.

“Lena? She’s not a warrior, she’s a scientist, like Isabel,” Diana says almost aggressively, but there’s an unmistakable pride in her voice. “I doubt she has any interest in putting aside her research to learn how to fight.”

_Imagine living in the same world as Themyscira, in the same universe as Mena and not wanting to…_

“She may have to learn whether she wants to or not,” Antiope says abruptly, pushing aside her own thoughts. One day, the Prophetess of the Amazons will die, and when she does, _nothing_ will tear them apart, but until then...

“She knows. Darkseid told her it was her duty to destroy the Anti-Monitor.”

“Well, it _is,”_ Antiope says sharply. _“_ Don’t make the same mistakes Hippolyta made with _you.”_

Diana sighs and lets the tip of her sword drop down to embed in the grass.

“One crisis at a time, Antiope,” she says, tiredness seeping into her voice at last, but Antiope knows it’s not from their dance on the training field. And for a long moment, she stares at her niece, concerned. But Diana only hefts her sword up into her hand and sheaths it against her back, and the wind rustles softly over the reeds lining the field, through her dark waves of unbound hair.

“It may soon be time—” she begins, but she shakes her head almost immediately, and forces herself to smile, flinging an arm over her aunt’s shoulders, apparently dismissing the thought altogether. “I shall take peace where I can find it. And when I cannot, I will fight.”

It is then that a stray warrior’s voice interrupts, calling to them from the edge of the field, informing them of the feast that has been prepared in the town square to welcome home their princess, and Diana gives a true smile at last.

“I can’t wait to tell Isabel that the cooks are still using her recipes—she will be furious to hear that they use fresh pork belly instead of cured…”

* * *

Martha kisses Hippolyta awake.

The sky is still dark, the heavy blanket of clouds just barely outlined by the hidden light of the moon. Hippolyta’s eyes flutter and her lips sigh Martha’s name as she stretches like a lioness and reaches up to run an elegant hand through Martha’s silvery hair.

_“Little one…”_

“I can.”

Their lips part, and Hippolyta goes still, then she opens her eyes and find Martha’s in the dark. Martha is lying on top of her, curled up against her like a baby on her mother’s chest, and Hippolyta’s strong arms wrap around her, holding her close. Martha’s breath dances across her cheek as she creeps up to kiss her once more.

_“Darling…_ why are you awake?”

_I couldn’t sleep._

But Martha says nothing of the hours she’s spent staring across the shadowed room and lets her touch speak for itself. Hippolyta groans softly and shifts beneath her, and Martha eases her hand between the goddess’ legs.

_“It’s all right, just lie back,”_ she whispers against cold skin, and the Queen’s hands reach up to grasp at the pillows, at the furs littered across their bed, at the headboard...

When it’s over, the sky outside is dark blue. The sun is beginning to stir, the clouds beginning to crack in anticipation of the piercing rays of light. There’s a rumble of voices from down below in the courtyard. Martha doesn’t know if her son has finally arrived, taking out the entire army lining the river Styx, or if John Constantine has returned battered and empty-handed, or if the entire Justice League is down below in formation, demanding answers, demanding _her._

“I can,” Martha Kent says in a small voice, dragging her wet fingertips across smooth skin, resting her cheek against her lover’s lifeless heart.

“You can _what?”_ Hippolyta murmurs, stroking back Martha’s mousy hair—goddesses may not sweat, but human women certainly do—and she sighs and opens her mouth, fighting the urge to trace her tongue along in the wake of her fingers. But Hippolyta raises her head, her eyes open and alert as the disturbance outside grows louder, and even now, Martha can hear the footsteps hurrying down the hall, and soon there will be a knock on the door, a guard with news, summons.

_I can do it. I can do anything, for you._

But Martha says nothing as Hippolyta pulls on her armor and ties back her hair. The guard had only whispered a short message into the Queen’s ear, and Hippolyta had sent her on her way. And when it’s clear that Hippolyta is not returning to bed, Martha slides out from beneath the covers and pads across the room toward her warrior Queen, a terrifying legend that had suddenly appeared in place of her soft, sleepy wife. Hippolyta allows her to buckle the bracers onto her forearms, then she cups Martha’s cheeks and kisses her.

“Mother… they’re here.”

Diana’s voice is urgent, even as her breath catches and she immediately turns her back at the sight of Martha’s state of undress. Hippolyta’s eyes are glittering with anticipation, arousal, amusement—and all at once, Martha can’t breathe, because for all of her screaming last night about Hippolyta fighting and proving with her sword and her tongue that their marriage was valuable to her, something precious, something worth fighting for, she had never, _never_ wanted to watch her wife march off to war…

“You will make tyrant of me yet, Martha Kent.”

Hippolyta’s skin is almost as cold as her armor as Martha presses up against her, hands trembling as she catches a curl of golden hair and twists it pensively around her fingers.

_Stay, Hippolyta... stay, and we can return to bed, make love until midday, and have a nice breakfast when the sun is high overhead... let them break themselves against the might of the Underworld…_

“Not a tyrant,” she says, sinking her fingers into soft fur, and forcing herself to look up into those steely eyes. “But maybe a thief.”

Hippolyta’s stern expression softens just slightly, and she sweeps down and kisses her so hard, Martha thinks for a moment that she is trying to kill her right there...

_“The face that launched a thousand ships,”_ Hippolyta whispers into her hair, then she pulls away just slightly and presses a kiss to her forehead, a soft kiss, a simple kiss, like when she had carried her out onto the desert after lifting her up from the smoking wreckage of the Batcave… and then she turns, and in an instant, both she and Diana are gone.

And for a long moment, Martha Kent stands alone, shivering in a room that is now cold and dead. Somehow, she had taken for granted that she and Hippolyta would be facing them together... that they would arrive, and they would state their case before the Senate, and she would be next to her wife the entire time, the Queens of the Underworld choosing their future, their fate, their story… but the intruders will be met at the banks of the Styx by the Goddess of Death and the Queen’s Guard, and they won’t even be allowed to step foot into the Underworld until they have been disarmed, forced to surrender before even one demand can slip past their lips. Those children from the Batcave, they’ll all be there: the poor robot, and the sweet boy who couldn’t stop talking, and the gruff man with the beard...

All at once, the clamor down below rises up to her ears, and she shoves away the memories, memories of a life she no longer lives, a world that is no longer hers… And she makes her way across the room as if in a daze, shrugs on a light nightgown and climbs the winding stairs to the rooftop garden. Aethon and Nyctaeus are waiting when she emerges, looming shadows against the muddy sky. And as she makes her way to the balcony, they follow, standing on either side of her like guards. Martha reaches up and pets their soft noses, kissing their horsey faces, and then she looks out over the balcony and gasps.

The Amazon Army is on the move. Five thousand warriors had been dispatched to the River Styx the night Lois Lane arrived, bruised and disoriented, but thousands more are flooding the streets, armed to the teeth, most mounted on horses, but others hover overhead on flying beasts, or aided by mechanical wings—the unfinished dream of Icarus. It is like the streets of New Themyscira is a river itself, surging forward to chase down the two figures speeding across the Vale of Mourning into the sunrise: it is the Goddess of Death and the Goddess of War, flying side by side, destined for where the open mouth of the Styx lies south of Tartarus.

Aethon lets out a little grunt of jealousy at the sight of all his friends bedecked in their finery, and Nyctaeus hisses at him behind Martha’s back. Martha shushes them both as a chilly breeze sweeps across the roof, brushing the light cotton robe over her skin, pulling the clouds apart so that the sunlight can blaze through the cracks.

Martha takes a deep breath as light pours out over the Underworld, then she reaches out with trembling hands and rests her fists unsteadily on the balcony railing, staring out over the world that is hers, the army that is marching at her defense, the goddesses who are racing faster than a speeding bullet to assert her right to choose the life she wishes to live.

_I can…_

The sound of the marching Army of the Dead echoes across the city, across the _world,_ and Martha finally allows herself a small smile.

“But I _won’t.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Re: Antiope and Diana: Fun fact, I have literally never written Antiope and Diana together, and it was surprisingly difficult?? That's partly why that scene ends so abruptly, I'm just so out of my element there and I'm too tired to retool it until it feels right.
> 
> 2) Re: _A face that launched...:_ Anyway, has there ever been version of Paris and Helen's story told from Helen's perspective? Like, sure, she's the face that launched a thousand ships, but how did it FEEL, standing on the balcony of her new pretty boy's castle, watching as the _world_ destroyed itself for her? ~~I bet it felt good~~
> 
> 3) Re: Sex=Tyrant???: Hippolyta and Martha had both decided by morning that they were going to do whatever the other wanted, it didn't just happen because Martha did something very nice with her wife... but at this point, Hippolyta's pretty much ready to go rogue (or "tyrant") to keep her here, and Martha's willing to leave, but NOT if she can help it. So we'll see where that gets them in the next few chapters.
> 
> ~~Also I cried a lot writing the first part of this chapter you're welcome~~


	28. Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment you’ve been waiting for—no, not that one, the _other_ one.

The day drags on.

Martha stays on the roof, watching as the sun creeps up into the sky, and picks at the food Myrrha brings her, feeding snacks to the horses. She doesn’t know how long she expected Hippolyta to take, but if the last time the Amazonian Queen met with the Justice League is any indication, a whole bunch of men are going to start arguing and interrupting each other, and _someone_ is going to end up impaled on their own sword… Martha shakes away the unsettling image and aimlessly splashes her feet in the warm water, wondering for a muddled second whether there might be some species of fish that could survive in hot pools, maybe a little school of colorful fish that could swim around and chase the beams of light as they filtered through the trees. Aetheon leans over her, a hungry eye fixed on her toes, and Martha yelps and shoves his head away before he can plunge his nose into the water.

Around noon, a light rain falls, but otherwise, there is no indication, no word on how the ordeal at the Styx might be going down. Martha curls up in one of the hammocks, swinging gently back and forth, dozing. Nyctaeus has settled down and tucked her head against her back like a duck, and Aethon stands in the corner with his back to them both, tail twitching impatiently.

When she closes her eyes, she can imagine the standoff, those boyish misfits standing awkwardly on the riverbank, trying to look brave, Charon glaring at them, refusing to let them past, Cerebus whining in the shadows—or maybe actually snarling like a good guard dog—and the might of the Amazon army lining the opposite side of the river, thousands of warriors, weapons at the ready, armor glinting in the torchlight. And then Hippolyta and Diana would appear as if by magic, tall and beautiful and majestic, the Old Gods in their element…

Martha can’t imagine Hippolyta actually raising her sword against any of them, but there’s an uncomfortable part of her that remembers the very first time she saw her, a terrifying warrior, ready to take down anything and anyone who dared stand between her and her daughter, and she knows that anything is possible…

* * *

_They’re dead._

_They’re all dead._

_Martha’s sifting through the bodies, trying to find… something, before they return and find them, capture them..._

_“I can hear them, hurry, we have to go…”_

_Them, being the army, the mighty nation that mercilessly slaughtered these people, leaving their remains piled here in this ditch, blood pooling like a river beneath their bodies._

_She’s remarkably calm, wading as she is through the massacre, but maybe it’s because these occurrences have become so commonplace as of late, or maybe it’s because she has to focus on the task at hand, allowing for no distractions—_

_“My Lady, I’m sorry, we—”_

_“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” Martha interrupts, and then they’re running, running down a street that looks strangely like one of the alleys in Smallville, the one next to the pizza shop, with the overgrown field behind it._

_“My Lady!”_

_And she looks, but there’s no one there, no one but the armed guards patrolling the streets, and she curses and plunges through the mud and reeds, and there—just there in the distance is the portal to the safe house, the secret door to the underground bunker, the one place on this Earth where they won’t find her, she just needs to reach it—_

_Gunshots explode across the open sky and all at once she’s on the ground, reeds scraping across her palms and knees, and she can’t move, it’s like she’s been stunned, tazed, shot, and they’re coming…_

* * *

_“My Lady.”_

Martha’s eyes fly open.

Myrrha is standing meekly before her, looking guilty for waking her. The rooftop garden is quiet, hot water lapping softly against the edge of the pool, the wind rustling through the leaves.

“Well... thank God for _that,”_ Martha mutters, trying to shove away the panic of the chase—massacre—whatever it was her brain had been trying to torment her with. She’ll have to ask Hippolyta later for some kind of potion or spell for dreamless sleep.

“I am sorry, My Lady, there is a man here to see the Queen.”

“...a man?” Martha says groggily, as if she’s never heard of such a thing before. Myrrha simply looks at her, and Martha shakes herself, rubbing a hand across her face. “The Queen isn’t here, she’s at the Styx.”

“He says it is urgent, My Lady.”

_You are also a Queen,_ is the unspoken message, and Martha sighs as she glances down at her open nightrobe and her tangled straggles of gray hair.

“Tell him I’ll be right there.”

* * *

The Old Man.

Martha can’t quite place him—she knows he was running about at some point during the mayhem following Diana’s death, and he might have been there at the House of Mystery, but she had been so distracted by Hippolyta’s bloodied body and Clark’s image being projected over every electronic device in sight, she hadn’t quite been aware of her surroundings.

“Mrs. Kent.” He does not smile as he approaches, but his face is earnest, solemn, and when the horses let out excited, high-pitched brays and rush forward to greet him, Martha knows this one is trustworthy.

“How did you get in? The Styx is practically under siege.”

“I brought Diana here, yesterday. I’m not with them, the people who are trying to find you.” Napi gives the horses a final pat, then he turns, focusing his attention on her. “John Constantine has returned. He was instructed to tell the Queen when he did.”

_Clark..._

Martha stares, and all at once, she can’t remember how to breathe, she can’t remember how to think, she can only stare stupidly at this god of old, and her stupider horses as they nibble at his weather-stained cloak, his long braids.

“Aetheon, Nyctaeus, leave him alone,” she manages faintly, and the horses whine, but canter away, leaving the man in peace.

“Is… is he all right?”

“They’ve taken him to below the Embassy.”

Martha looks away, wishing she hadn’t sent the horses away so then she could wrap her arms around them, rest her cheek against their soft faces, distract herself from the terrible images filling her mind: Clark, chained up in prison, surrounded by frightened soldiers, green Kryptonite pouring through his veins to keep him subdued—

“Take me to him.”

* * *

Somehow, the silence is more frightening than if the tunnels leading to the dungeons were filled with screams. Napi strolls beside her, his soft boots and her leather sandals meeting cold stone in unison. The horses had whined but stayed behind on the Embassy steps, stomping off to find some fresh tufts of spring grass.

She had imagined herself marching confidently through the halls, a Queen on a mission, but she keeps finding herself dragging her feet, peering into the cells as they pass by. The empty rooms are sparsely furnished, but open, airy, and far more comfortable than even some of the apartments Martha’s seen advertised in Metropolis.

“Is it strange that…?” she begins, not even sure what she’s trying to say. But her voice echoes loudly, and the words _is it strange?_ repeat around her, like an eerie, cynical choir.

“You survived this far.”

_That doesn’t mean I’ll survive this,_ Martha thinks, but her feet keep leading her forward as if on their own accord, and almost too soon, another figure appears at the end of the hall, and then—

“Martha!”

And her heart leaps at the sight of the suit, the red cape, the House of El insignia, but the figure wearing it is blonde and lithe, and Martha tries her best to not let her disappointment show as she hugs Kara Danvers back.

_They dragged you into this too?_ she wants to say with a weak smile, but instead her voice is trembling, unsteady as she pulls slightly away and says,

“Is… is he…?”

“He’s here.”

And Supergirl rests a strong hand on her shoulder and leads her forward, into a large room, where a dome sits in the middle of the floor. It’s filled with red, glowing light, and at its center, a man is pacing back and forth…

_“Clark.”_

Martha pushes past someone, she doesn’t even know who—and all at once, she’s kneeling in front of a closet door, the entire Smallville Elementary 4th grade crowded around her, staring… and then Clark turns around at the sound of her voice, and he’s dressed in the black suit, his Superman symbol blazed across his chest in red, and his eyes are blindfolded.

“Ma.”

It’s him, his voice, soft and gentle, and he sounds just like his old self, warm and affectionate and hopeful, and Martha comes to a stop in front of him, wringing her hands, this cold, magical barrier separating them from each other. The red rays are throbbing, and she can almost see them sapping her son’s energy, keeping him subdued, keeping him from breaking out, from moving too suddenly.

“God, Clark…” she whispers, wanting more than anything to embrace him, like she had when he came home after finding his parents, or after he came back from the dead.

“Is it really you?” he asks now, reaching out and gingerly touching the barrier. It must hurt so much, the red sun… but this is far less terrible than the torture she’d been imagining, her little son flailing and screaming as green poison cracked his very skin apart.

“...it’s really me, baby,” she chokes, and she’s crying. She turns away to wipe her eyes even though she know he can’t see her. But he bows his head and for a second, his hand twitches, as if to push through the barrier to touch her.

“Don’t do that,” a voice calls out from the dark, and Martha recognizes the cold drawl of John Constantine. Clark turns his head slowly as if to look in his direction, then he lets his hand drop once more to his side.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” he asks, but he sounds distant, distracted, and she notices that his mouth twitches as if in pain as he takes a single step back from the barrier.

“I’m fine, don’t you worry about me,” Martha insists, sniffling.

“I’m not worried,” Clark says, and then that black cape sweeps over his shoulders as he reaches up and pulls the blindfold away. And Martha can’t move as his blue eyes blink and turn to stare back at her, like when he was a baby with those adorable, chubby cheeks and sprouts of black hair sticking out of his head, and the way he would gasp all night, like he couldn’t get enough oxygen…

“Clark…”

“You’re tougher than you look. Dad always said so.”

And Martha shakes her head, wordless, unhearing as shouts rise up around her, unmoving as a red blaze of dripping fire shoots out from her precious son’s eyes, searing a hole right through the red sun lamps, right through the bubble-like magical barrier, right through John Constantine’s flailing body. She tries to turn her head to look as the exorcist slams against the wall, then slumps onto the floor, motionless, but all at once _he’s_ there, hand stretching out to touch her cheek, keeping her gaze focused on him, and his arms are strong and gentle as they wrap around her.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” he says, his voice soft, earnest despite the screams rising up around them. And Martha trembles as he suddenly raises his head and blinks, red Omega beams sending Supergirl tumbling back over her own heels.

“Clark, no, you _can’t,”_ Martha murmurs, but Superman lifts her up into his arms, and even if she were to struggle against him, her _son,_ she knows it would be futile. She’s been at enough meetings these last few months to know that the only thing that can stop him now is Death, the only power that had managed to defeat Darkseid...

“It’s all right, Ma,” he says quietly, holding her close. “You’ll be all right now.”

And somewhere in the back of Martha’s racing mind, she remembers that one, fateful night, so many years ago, racing out to where the Kryptonian spaceship had crashed in the middle of the field, Jonathan shouting at her to _stay back, it might be dangerous…_ and amidst all that smoke and fire, there had been the sound of a baby crying, and she hadn’t even stopped to think as she plunged forward and dragged him out, lifting him up into her arms, and cooing at him, brushing the ash out of his hair, not even aware that her own sleeve had caught fire and Jonathan was furiously trying to put it out…

_It’s all right, little baby. You’ll be all right now._

“Clark, wait, no—”

But Superman tightens his grip on her and raises his head to stare up at the shadowed roof.

“Let’s get you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~my brain decided to work after all~~
> 
> Anyway, THANKS FOR READING. There's a lot here taken from the Injustice run, and I swear to the gods I'm not going that route, but it IS fun to mess a little with Superman's character and stretch him just enough so that he thinks he's being himself, but he's _definitely_ not being himself.
> 
> The next chapter is the showdown between Clark and Hippolyta and I'm so excited for it!!
> 
> (Also, fun fact, Martha's dream is a combination of two dreams I actually had...)
> 
> Also I'm sorry review replies have been so late -.- I've been sick/spring allergies and my brain's been mush all week, which is why it's a miracle this chapter happened at all! I promise I'll get to the old ones tonight!! :D


	29. Let Them Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hippolyta and Martha come to grips with what is happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ANGST (The second worst angst. There's one more chapter of worst angst, and then we're done with angst ~~maybe~~ )

_“Martha!”_

She’s cowering, like she was the last time a Kryptonian threatened her, lifted her off her feet, and threw her across her own front lawn. Clark’s head snaps up, and his eyes burn at the sight of newcomers.

_“You.”_

The malice in his voice is so thick, there’s only one person it can be directed at, and Martha slowly turns her head away from Clark’s suited chest, trembling hands pressed to her mouth as she looks across the room at her wife standing in the entrance. She looks just like the goddess she is, with her golden hair, and her gleaming armor, and her bulging muscles, and her blazing eyes… and she’s staring at Martha like she’s looking for answers, hesitating, but there’s a heaviness in her expression, like she’s weighing the consequences of letting it play out before her, the consequences of simply letting Clark take her—

_“No!”_

And Martha begins to struggle, trying to reach out a hand toward her, but Clark takes a step back.

“You’ve _brainwashed_ her.”

“Let me go,” Martha orders, but the arms around her tighten.

“No, I won’t let—”

_“Now,_ young man,” Martha snaps, her fear erasing instantly, replaced with motherly sternness, and for a split second, it seems as if he’s about to comply, but his eyes harden, and all at once, they’re shooting upwards at the speed of light, and Martha is screaming as chunks of rock and debris rain down onto her head, and for all of her flying around with Hippolyta these last few lifetimes, it _never_ felt like this: like her skin is being peeled off and her voice is being yanked from her throat like a rope, and her _ears—_

_“Let her GO.”_

And she can feel Clark’s burning eyes scalding the side of her head, singeing a few dozen gray hairs, and he’s roaring in some foreign language, _Apokoliptian,_ she realizes, remembering its strange, harsh cadence from when Queen Suli and General Barda came to visit last month—

“Clark for the love of God, STOP!”

She’s burning up, freezing to death, and she can’t _breathe,_ and suddenly, Martha feels something like plastic wrap being slapped over her face, over her bare hands, pressing down on her clothes, and the burning stops, the fridged air erupting from her son’s mouth stops, and something is slithering around Clark’s body, thousands of dark, snake-like shadows forcing his arms apart, forcing him to release her, and as she slips from his grasp and falls screaming through the empty sky, the last thought she has is…

_Tentacles._

* * *

Hippolyta rarely shows her true form outside of Tartarus.

She doesn’t _need_ to unless she’s fighting an army, and Amazons do not wound unless they can subdue, and do not subdue unless they can pacify…

But when her wife’s Motherbox-ravaged son starts tearing through space and spewing Apokoliptian curses and heat vision at her, it’s all she can do to cast a flimsy protection spell over Martha’s struggling form before Clark kills her, and in the split second she’s distracted with saving her beloved from certain death, she’s thrown off-balance by red lightning hitting her square in the chest, sending her reeling across the dark galaxies. Darkseid was notorious for destroying entire _worlds_ with his Omega beams, but Clark has been imbued with his Kryptonian powers, and the destructive energy of the Motherbox, and whatever Darkseid and Granny Goodness had done to him on Apokolips, and now he is more powerful even than them…

Any mortal would’ve been immediately disintegrated, along with their entire surroundings. Any immortal would’ve been ripped to fragments, cursed to spend the rest of their existence gleaning their scattered remains from the cosmos.

But Hippolyta falls into the embrace of the dark, red fire licking up and down her lifeless bones before winking out completely, and when she slowly raises her head and looks blearily across the field of stars, the power of Death, of _nothingness_ forces its way through her marrow, through the veins and sinew and muscles that wrap themselves around her lifeless frame… and a sound reaches her ears from light years away…

It is the sound of Martha Kent screaming.

Once, Hippolyta had listened to her sisters screaming for nights without end, helpless to do anything but vow for justice through her tears.

The pain from the Omega beams is burning her from the inside out, but she can feel its sting beginning to ebb, the numb embrace of Death smoothing over her like one of those wide brushes Martha used to paint the walls of their guest rooms _(Lilac is a nice, neutral baby color, right?_ she’d asked with a nervous smile, as if afraid Hippolyta was going to announce that she’d changed her mind). Hippolyta lets out a soft groan at the memory, and stretches her limbs as if to make sure they’re all there. She can still hear Martha’s muffled sobs growing more and more faint as Kal-El speeds away.

And all at once, the power of the Death floods her lifeless veins, the bloodlust of an Amazon Queen, she feels herself beginning to shape-shift in mid-air, her limbs beginning to grow and multiply, and when she opens her mouth to let out a loud battle cry, the sound fills the universes, and the souls still living hear the faint echoes of her roar of rage, and they shiver in their sleep.

And then she’s upon them—Clark doesn’t even have time to move before her tail slaps him angrily across the face, sending him spinning head over heels, Martha flying out of his grip, and then she’s bearing down on him, wrapping him so tightly in her numerous arms, she can only see his eyes, trying desperately to shoot fire or electricity at her, but the beams of light only glance off of her thick hide, useless.

_“Now,_ little intruder…”

And suddenly the space between them is quiet, two beings in the universe, one the size of a man, and one the size of a planet. Clark makes some pathetic noise from behind the thick tentacles wrapped over his mouth, but Hippolyta doesn’t let him speak.

“Either you and I will debate before the Senate, with your Earth friends at your side to vouch for you, and your _victims_ at mine, or you and I will speak _now…_ of _which circle of Tartarus you wish to inhabit.”_

* * *

She remembers falling.

She remembers darkness.

And then there was light.

_“Martha.”_

It’s a low rumble, barely a whisper, and Martha Kent opens her eyes.

She’s lying on the beach, fingers grasping at white sand, and looming over her, like the enormous cliffs lining Hera’s exile island, is the monstrous being she calls her wife. She’s so _huge,_ it’s as if she’s scraping against the low sky, and it’s all Martha can do to keep herself from screaming again.

_“...‘polyta,”_ she mumbles, blinking the sand and tears and ash away from her eyes. She’s clearly just been dragged to shore, judging the tentacles prodding at her, pulling away the filmy protective spell, tapping lightly against her heart. She can’t even see the creature’s _face,_ only a wall of thick, slimy skin, and a very long, forked tongue dabbing over her pulse-points. Martha raises her head slightly and catches a glimpse of a barbed tail curling up against the horizon, a mess of tentacles and knobby legs submerged in the deeps of the bay.

_God, maybe I am turned on by monsters,_ she tries to say, but all that comes out is wordless stammering, and she forces herself to smile through her terror as she reaches up to run her palm over knotty, leathery flesh. The being before her shudders, and all at once, Hippolyta is there, golden hair falling down to brush against Martha’s face, a worried smile on her lips, her eyes as blue as the sparkling sea behind them.

“Are you all right?”

And Martha breathes a sigh of relief and slides her arms around that elegant neck, pulling her down into a warm kiss.

“You’ve never done that before,” she scolds, trembling still. First Circe with her nakedness, then the Trench with their teeth, then her son with his madness _,_ and now _this..._

“I didn’t know you liked it.”

Hippolyta’s voice is teasing. Martha grins, then says against cool lips,

“What did he say?”

“He agreed to talk.”

Martha kisses her again.

“And the others? At the Styx?”

“They agreed to listen.”

Hippolyta is beginning to pull away, but Martha clings even tighter to her, whining.

_“No,_ not yet... I’ve missed you.”

Those blue eyes are piercing, but they crinkle slightly with knowing as they gaze down at her.

“...since this morning?”

_“Yes.”_ And Martha’s blushing, but she still doesn’t let go, forcing her wife to either extract herself, or settle down once more beside her on this beach _—their_ beach.

“Just… stay. For a little while.”

Hippolyta stares at her, then gives a wry smile and falls back down beside her with a soft _thump,_ her hair rippling like waves across the sand. Martha glances sideways at her, then turns slightly to brush the golden strands out of her lover’s eyes.

“We never got to do this, you know.”

“Hmm?”

Martha bites her lip, and for a moment she wavers, unsure if she can go on, but she swallows away the lump in her throat and says with forced casualness,

“I—ah, in Smallville, there’s a lake where the young people go swimming in the summer—oh, it’s a boring—all flat land, flat and brown, nothing like this,” Martha dismisses, waving a hand at the glistening boulders, the stately pine trees lining the shores. “But they did all sorts of things, swimming, cookouts, bonfires. That was the place, if you liked someone, you tried to catch them at one of those parties, flirt with them, hold their hand… kiss them under the stars.”

Her voice trails off as she stares down at Hippolyta’s peaceful face, her eyelids drooping, a hint of a soft smile on her lips.

“And we never got to do that,” Martha says in a small voice, the sound nearly swallowed by the waves lapping against the smoothed pebbles. “We never got to be young together.”

Hippolyta opens her eyes, and her gaze is calculating as she looks at Martha’s melancholy face.

“I have not been young for a very long time, little one.”

Martha gives a reluctant smile and looks away.

“I know.”

She doesn’t speak for a long moment. The water seems almost loud as it rolls back and forth over the rocks and sand, an endless ebb and flow in a timeless world.

“It’s just... different. Everything feels so much bigger, when you’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and it’s like you’re careless and careful all at once. And every decision seems so important, like you’ll never get another chance if you make one wrong choice. When you’re old, you understand that life doesn’t stop no matter what you do… no matter how much you may want it to.”

Hippolyta stares quizzically back at her, and all of a sudden, Martha feels herself getting choked up, and she quickly turns her back so Hippolyta can’t see her tears.

“Darling…”

“You’re going to do it,” Martha says abruptly. It’s not a question, and Hippolyta doesn’t answer. “I… I saw you hesitate when you came in, like you were going to… to just let it happen. Without a goodbye, without a fight, like you don’t want me here.”

Hippolyta hisses through her teeth, but Martha hears her lying slowly back down on the wet sand, and her silence is answer enough. Martha scoffs and runs her sleeve over her face.

“Do you know what I love about you?” she says in a muffled voice, dragging herself to her feet and impatiently brushing the sand off of her tunic. “You’re a _fighter._ You fight for the things you love, every day, even if it’s not with a sword, you fight for justice, and equality, and peace, and you teach people—including me—that these things are possible, and worth fighting for... which is why I don’t understand why you’re not fighting for _me.”_

The Queen sits up, but she does not answer, and Martha lets out a bitter laugh.

_“Well?”_ she goads, but Hippolyta only stares back at her, eyes brimming with pain.

_Fight for me, dammit, FIGHT for me, fight for US, if nothing else…_

But when she does speak, her voice is so broken, Martha barely hears the syllables.

“I’m sorry.”

Martha stares at her, eyes wide, rage coursing through her veins, and she doesn’t mean it, she doesn’t mean a single word of it, but she steps forward until she’s nose to nose with her lover, her Queen, her _wife,_ and she hisses,

“Oh, you’re _sorry._ I see. Even now, _you mourn,_ I suppose? _I know_ what you do to your lovers, you choke the life out of them, like those—those spiders that eat their _mates.”_

_Martha…_

“Please… do not make this harder than it already is.”

“If you do this to me, I will do everything I can to make your life _hell,_ Hippolyta.”

“It must be done. I cannot—”

“You can. You _can._ You _must,_ I can’t go back, I can’t, I can’t live like that again, do you even know—Smallville, and Kansas, the people there will—you can’t make me leave, I…”

Hippolyta looks away once more, and Martha throws up her hands.

_I thought you knew. I thought you knew what it feels like, the rug pulled out from under your feet, helpless and struggling as the world spins around you, betrayed by someone, only moments ago, that you loved more than life—_

_“God,_ Hippolyta… how is this _any_ different?” she spits, and the shock on Hippolyta’s face is almost worth it, but then she closes her eyes and turns away, as if Martha had driven a knife through her very heart, and she can no longer bear to look at her, and Martha knows she should apologize, say she didn’t mean it, didn’t mean to bring her horrifying ordeal with Heracles into this, say she knows this is just as difficult for her as it is for her, but…

“There will be no _peace_ until you are returned to the land of the living,” Hippolyta says at last, rising as well. Her voice is cold, and Martha takes a step back as those piercing eyes turn to stare directly into hers.

“That… is the most bullshit excuse I’ve ever heard—since when do you care about what a bunch of men think? They’ll get over themselves, learn to exist without little old me—”

“You deserve to live your life and take your place amongst those who are also alive. You still have chapters of your story to write before you resign yourself to this place—”

_“Resign?”_

“Your life is a _gift._ It is a gift that was given to you, a gift that too many no longer have, and you cannot use it or appreciate it from this world—”

“Oh, fuck that, I’ve been more alive down here than I’ve ever been—”

“You have the power to change the world. As long as you draw breath, you have the power to walk across history, to make choices that will alter the course of time, the fate of the humankind—”

“Right, I’m sure I’m going to be changing the _world_ from my little diner and crumbling farm,” Martha snaps, pushing Hippolyta away from her. “Change _history?_ I’m not _you._ I’m an old woman, and I want to _die,_ for God’s sake... I’ve been wanting to die, I wanted to _long_ before I met you, and you can’t take that away from me, you can’t force me to live a life I don’t want to live—”

“You deserve to watch your grandchildren grow up,” Hippolyta breaks in, and her eyes are watery as she takes Martha by the shoulders, even as she keeps trying to push her back, pull herself away. “You deserve to watch as the world learns to accept aliens like your son, until no one, no mother will ever have to endure what you did… you deserve to see love like ours accepted and cherished by all people, and live to see a time when you can speak without shame of—”

“I—DON’T— _CARE,”_ Martha shouts, slapping Hippolyta hard across the face for the second time in her life.

The first time had been when she thought her wife was cheating on her with a beautiful sorcerer.

Hippolyta’s eyes flash, and then she seizes her wrists, holding them far away from her bloodless skin. Martha struggles against her, but there’s no escaping as Hippolyta leans down and looks her in the eye.

_“What_ then?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but Martha feels it cut through her just as painfully as if she had raised her voice. “Will you stay and watch the bodies of your would-be rescuers pile up on the banks of the Styx? What of those who your son killed in his search for you, so blinded by his own rage and fear, he didn’t even hear his wife crying out for him to stop? He may be a child to you, but to them, he is a _god,_ and these people who stand at his side, they will carry his vengeance into the world, and they are _dangerous.”_

“I can’t be responsible for—”

“When we first met, I told you that the reason these people fight is for _you,”_ Hippolyta interrupts, and she slips down to her knees and grips Martha’s waist, gazing up at her with those eyes that have captured her all these years. “You, and the innocence and hope that you embody. They will destroy themselves and their _world_ for the ideals that you represent, and they will _convince_ themselves that it is out of love for you.”

_They’re dead._

_They’re all dead… blood running like a river beneath the pile of bodies..._

Martha shakes her head, shaking away the disturbing memory of her dreams, and she wipes her eyes and blows her nose into a handkerchief that has seen far too much use these last few months.

“There _must_ be another way,” she mumbles. “There _is,_ we can find one, together.”

And Hippolyta leans in and presses her cheek against Martha’s soft belly, against her barren womb, the place where all her children met their deaths, the place that she had wept over and prayed over for so many heartbreaking years…

“Perhaps,” Hippolyta murmurs, her voice low, lifeless. “...but how many will we allow to die for us before then?”

Martha reaches down as if to stroke back Hippolyta’s wild head of hair, then she kicks out in frustration and breaks violently away from her wife’s grasp.

“Fuck you.”

Hippolyta doesn’t react to the venom in Martha’s voice, and somehow this makes her even more furious.

“Did you hear me?! I said _fuck_ you, _you,_ in particular, fuck your stupid nobility, and—and obsession with _life—”_

Martha stomps away, then spins around and jabs an accusing finger in Hippolyta’s direction. The Queen is still kneeling on the sand, and there are tears in her eyes as she looks up at her.

_“Let_ them. Let them come, let them try, and let them _burn,_ let the—the worms eat their flesh, and the buzzards pick their bones, let them _die. I don’t care.”_

But she _does_ care, and she knows Hippolyta will never allow it: War. Bloodshed. The living flinging themselves against the doors to Tartarus. Martha lets out a strangled cry and pulls angrily at her own hair, the silvery hair that had captured Hippolyta’s heart that first night, beside the lake, under the light of the moon.

_“God,_ all I wanted… all I wanted was…”

“I know.”

Martha scoffs, crossing her arms tightly, not bothering to hide the tears streaming freely down her cheeks.

“Go.”

Hippolyta doesn’t move.

“I said, _GO,”_ Martha shouts suddenly, waving her arms like a demented palm tree, but the order sounds less angry and more grief-stricken, even to her ears. “Go to your precious, _useless_ Senate meeting, and tell them your bit, tell them—tell them you’re going to let them take me away. But _God,_ I hope I die a violent death before the year is out. That would serve all of you fools right: a violent, _gory_ death.”

“I would never let that happen.”

And all at once, Hippolyta’s lips are on hers, and Martha tries half-heartedly to push her away, but despite everything, despite her angry words and anguished tears and shattered heart, she can’t hate her, and just as she would’ve gone to the ends of the earth and the depths of hell for her, she’ll go back to the land of the living at her bidding, even if everything in her is screaming for her to stay, _just stay,_ and let the world spin itself into oblivion... she’ll go back, because she loves this woman more than life, and even here in this timeless land of the dead, her heart beats only for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING YOU MADE IT TO THE END AND SURVIVED THE ANGST AND I'M PROUD OF YOU.
> 
> 1\. There's a Justice League Unlimited episode where Hades shows his true form/face, and it's basically a bigger, scarier version of himself, but I thought Hippolyta might take some inspiration from the Karathen because the Karathen is awesome.
> 
> 2\. Hippolyta has a couple agendas here, one is to make sure she's not robbing Martha of her rightful life, and another is to keep the peace between the living and the dead (and there's a third that we'll see play out in the next chapter). But as a warrior, she knows when to surrender, and that's what she's doing, much to Martha's horror.
> 
> 3\. If you've read any version of the original Hades/Persephone story, you'll know that Martha has at least one more trick up her sleeve, so don't get TOO upset about the angst. :)
> 
> 4\. Also this chapter took a LOT of retooling, but I'm really happy with how it eventually turned out! Legit arguments are hard to write, especially when it needs to lead to a particular resolution, so I'm sorry for the delay, but I just wanted to make sure it rang as true as possible instead of seeming forced. Thanks for your patience :) ~~Also it's a long weekend so it's still the weekend right? Right?~~


	30. Judgement Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha Kent takes matters into her own hands.

They’re all here.

Shadows.

Faces.

Judgement Day.

Hippolyta makes her way past the dark crowd in their dark seats, dead, sallow faces turning to stare, mousy heads bowing respectfully as she sweeps down the steps to the center of the room, the colosseum stage, the eye of the storm.

Clark is waiting, unbound and unrestrained, his black cape limp against his back. His friends are seated behind him in their colorful suits: Bruce, Arthur, Victor, Barry, Billy, their hearts beating in frantic unison despite their grim faces. They’re all in their armor, as if they came expecting, or maybe _anticipating_ a fight.

She looks at them, and she knows them, knows their mothers, their fathers, their grandparents. She had kissed Atlanna upon a cool beach in the center of the Earth, she’d built Martha Wayne the biggest library in New Gotham, she’d patiently explained every detail about the speedforce to Nora Allen until the woman had been ready to turn back time herself, she’d allowed an elated Eleanor Stone to merge her labs with Queen Suli’s in New Apokolips, she’d embraced Mary Batson for a long, long moment before sending her to heal in the Fields of Asphodel… she’d ordered Thomas Wayne to give up his city airs and sent him to work on Kent farms, she’d sentenced King Orvax to rot on the bottom of the Styx for condemning his wife to die in the Trench…

_Children… they’re just children._

Hippolyta stands at the edge of the circle of light, watching as the corrupted Kryptonian turns slowly to face her. The shadows fall in harsh lines over Clark’s face. In a way, she almost loves him, as Martha loves him, as a mother loves a son. She’s heard every story over the years, his first smile, his first laugh, his first tooth, his first day at school, his first girlfriend, his first time wandering the world alone…

“You asked to talk, Queen Hippolyta. Here I am.”

Once, a man in a bulky bat-suit had growled at him through the rain, his bloodlust barely concealed behind his bulky mask, but the fury in the Superman’s face is unmasked, unmistakable. Hippolyta does not flinch—but she is strangely thankful that Martha Kent had deigned to follow her back to the city, choosing instead to glare out over the sea, as if the waves themselves would quake at her stare and retreat back into the deeps.

She moves forward into the light, and a lone figure stands, hat in hand, face weatherbeaten and solemn and unafraid. Once, he’d trusted her with the most precious thing he had, and he trusts her now to make this right, to heal their son, and reconcile his family...

“Sit down, Jonathan.”

Her voice is soft, and their eyes lock for a moment, then she turns her back, gaze sweeping over those seated along the opposite side of the small circle. Diana. Kara. Jason Todd. Antiope. The Queen’s Guard. All of those killed in Superman’s attacks are crowded onto the benches behind them. Circe is there, surrounded by the villagers of Aeaea, that smug smile replaced for once with a fierce, protective frown; Lois Lane, her face buried in her hands. And there are others: those crushed by a cave-in at Sears, workers from some of the outlying farms in Smallville, dozens from Metropolis from when he had wildly scoured the streets, thinking that perhaps she had been brought back to the city to taunt him, as Lex Luthor had on the night he died… and then there others, simple victims, old people in old homes, poor people in poor housing: lead paint, lead dust, lead water. In the blindness of uncontrollable rage, anything that sent waves through Superman’s x-ray vision had seemed suspicious…

“You have made the living world unsafe, Kal-El. I will not allow the Queen to be returned until it is safe for her once more.”

There is a tense silence. Clark Kent might have been taken aback, as he had been the scientists, the talk-show hosts, the Senate, the _world_ debated the goodness of his power and intentions. But the pull of the Motherbox speeds through his veins, understanding the Goddess of Death immediately, and he takes a menacing step forward.

“So _this_ was your plan? You kidnapped my mother so you could force me to give up my powers?”

He raises a fist, eyes flickering with red light, but Hippolyta only looks steadily at him, and to his surprise, a faint smile of regret twists the corner of her lips.

“It had nothing to do with _you.”_

He glares at her, but there is fear in his expression. He may have been raised in a small, sleepy farm town, but his mind has fused with the bloodlust of the Motherbox, and he knows the horrors of Apokolips, the lore of a people devoted to tormenting souls into madness.

“She’s a woman,” he says at last, his voice thick. “A simple woman, a _good_ woman. She didn’t ask for this to happen. She just saw a baby and took him in, and it wasn’t easy, but she did her best, and she always…”

The fire in his eyes wanes, and he turns his face away, glancing almost unconsciously to where his father is standing with the others.

_I’ll get him, I’ll go get him—_

_No, no... get your mom to the overpass._

“Clark…”

The black cape flutters as he strolls forward until they’re nose to nose. He’s so close, she can see the raw electricity racing through his limbs, moving them as if on their own accord. The energy rattles eerily through his lungs.

“I swear, I will repay everything you did to her. Every moment, every sliver of pain… you will feel the same, _ten times_ the same, until—”

“Enough of this,” Hippolyta says sternly, fighting the urge to inform this arrogant young alien of what exactly such _repayment_ would entitle. She can see Antiope twitching slightly in her seat, as if she’s struggling to contain either laughter or a flashing sword.

“I have told you my terms. Now tell the council yours, and be quick about it.”

Hippolyta pushes past where he had been blocking her path to her gilded throne. Clark watches as she seats herself, a faint memory flickering as she turns to face him expectantly.

_Today is a day for truth…_

There’s fire in his eyes, but it’s not the fire of the Omega beams. It’s the fire of an explosion… the world set ablaze, surrounded by death, deaths he could have prevented, deaths he may have unintentionally caused, just by coming today to this Senate meeting… motionless bodies laid out on the Capitol steps, uniformed officers and medics moving back and forth with deadly calm… Lois Lane staring at him from behind a metal barrier…

_Welcome to the planet._

And all at once, it’s gone. The powers, the _energy_ keeping him alive buzzes once more through his veins, and he raises his head.

“I am here for my mother. And I will not leave without her.”

* * *

She smells him before she sees him.

The sun is setting, but she’d wrapped herself up in her cloak and settled down onto the wool blanket that her traitorous wife had been thoughtful enough to conjure for her. She hadn’t intended to doze off, thinking that her rage was strong enough to keep her seething until the end of time, but all at once, she’s aware of the sounds of a dry cough, and her eyes fly open when she realizes it’s not one of the leering faces in her nightmares.

“...what do _you_ want?”

She sits up, her face is still streaked with dried tears, her nose red and raw from however many times she’s blown it in the last few hours, days, weeks. But she can still smell the sharp tang of cigarette smoke as it wafts across the beach, as graceful and intangible as the waves.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” John Constantine’s voice is casual, as if he’s uninterested. Martha swipes at her face with her sleeve and squints up at him. She doesn’t know him well enough to tell if he’s truly bored, or hiding some agenda.

“...I want to make my own choices. That’s all.”

“Well then, choose.”

Martha stares. The long jacket, the messy, spiky hair, the scraggly beard: he looks exactly like he had the first time she’d seen him, strolling across the dark lake at the Batcave, glancing over his shoulder as Hippolyta leapt up into the air.

_“How?_ You know how they are: everything _for the good of the order_ and all that.”

Constantine blows out a thick cloud of smoke, and Martha coughs.

“Do you know why she never lets you eat the food of the Underworld?” he says, flicking ash over the frothy water. “Why she _constantly_ makes me run back and forth—you’re welcome, by the way—between here and the House getting food?”

“The Furies will take me away,” Martha says slowly, suspiciously, biting back a protest to stop _littering_ in her ocean. “If I eat the food of the Underworld, they’ll cancel their agreement with the Queen and take me away.”

“Hah! _Those_ old hags?” Constantine laughs bitterly before taking another long drag. “They couldn’t care less what you eat.”

“That’s not true.”

He gives her a strange, knowing look, then glances down at the sand beneath their feet. Martha rises and takes a step forward, and he hastily stows the wasted cigarette in his coat pocket instead of tossing it aside.

“It’s not _true,_ she told me, she said—” Martha begins again, her voice rising with slight panic.

“The Queen has not allowed you to eat the food of the Underworld because if you do, you’ll be forced to _stay,”_ Constantine says, taking a step back as she advances on him. “Hey, don’t come at me— _you_ know how she is, how she’s completely anal about... free will and all that. I suppose I don’t blame her, with the shit that went down in their history, but...”

Martha opens her mouth to demand he take it back, to insist that her Queen would never _lie_ to her like that, but the words are strangled inside her throat, as if this fresh betrayal is yet another noose around her neck.

_Noose… or chains?_

“So.”

And then she looks down to see that John Constantine is casually tossing something to himself with one hand, like a bored kid in the outfield waiting for a hit. And the breath rushes out of her lungs when she realizes it's an apple, like the ones she had been picking the same night Hippolyta had taken her away...

“Are you Satan?” Martha says shakily, and Constantine laughs.

“Your husband brought a bunch of these up from his orchard today. He always gives me a few crates to take back to the bloody fools living in my house. Zee says there’re enough dead people squatting in there to invest in some dead food every so often, though I’d really prefer to just let them starve, since they can’t _die—”_

“Why are you doing this? Telling me this, risking her anger?”

Constantine gives a little grimace and pulls another apple from his pocket. And the _sound_ it makes when he bites into it… Martha stares as apple juice dribbles down his chin, and he attempts a muffled apology, taking her fascination for disgust. But when he looks at her, there’s a gleam of amusement in his eyes, a small delight at this forbidden idea.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of hauling food around. Or maybe you just seem old enough to make your own decisions. I don’t know.”

Martha eyes the apple again and takes a tentative step forward.

“If you’re lying to me...”

“Why would I lie to you?” Constantine snorts, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I don’t love you.”

Martha flinches, those casual words burying deeper into her than the elegant, razor-sharp dagger Hippolyta had given to her on their honeymoon.

“She isn’t like that, she’s not…”

But whatever weak protests Martha was trying desperately to make are interrupted by the sight of the black chariot hurling across the open sea. The horses both look furious, apparently upset at having been left at the Embassy and helpless to intervene when Clark had tried to kidnap her.

“Daddy’s calling.” John Constantine’s voice is amused, as if the fact that Hippolyta has sent these enormous beasts to fetch her is somehow gaudy, or archaic—or proof to him that Martha is only a pawn, a subject, a _woman_ to be carted to and fro, summoned when desired. Martha looks up as the horses impatiently stomp the air, tossing their graceful heads, like they had been the first night she’d seen them hovering above the corn field, and she sighs. Constantine raises an eyebrow, taking another loud, juicy bite, and waves the fresh apple merrily.

“Snack for the road? A better lot than the in-flight shit the airlines would give you.”

And Martha scowls. Something clicks into place, and she sticks out her hand.

_“Give_ _me that.”_

* * *

She’d expected everyone to be there: The Justice League, the Amazons, the Old Gods, the New Gods, the people Clark had killed, the _Trench…_

But when she leaps from her chariot and bursts into the dark arena, it’s only Clark, Jonathan, and Hippolyta at a round table in the middle of the Senate floor, speaking softly together in solemn voices. It’s as if they’re sitting together at the kitchen table, trying to figure out how to pay the bills this month.

Martha creeps forward, wondering if perhaps the horses hadn’t been sent to summon her after all, wondering if maybe she’s not needed yet, not _wanted—_

_“Ma!”_ And all at once, Clark is on his feet and running to her, taking the steps three at a time, and then his strong arms are around her, and the hardness is gone from his face, and his eyes are warm and sparkling once more, just like she remembered.

“You’re back.” It’s all she can think to say, but somehow, she doesn’t even have to ask this time, she knows, she knows her son, and it’s him, it’s _him._..

* * *

Martha can’t look Hippolyta in the eye.

And it doesn’t help that the Queen won’t stop staring at her, those blue eyes seemingly more piercing than usual. Or maybe it’s just her imagination, and guilt isn’t practically radiating from her face like a neon sign...

“Kal-El agreed to subject himself to a series of experiments. They were successful at extracting the poison of the Motherbox from him. In exchange, you, and those who were killed during his madness will be returned to Earth. He and the rest of the meta-humans will receive training from both the Amazons and Atlanteans, and they will learn how to control their powers and live at peace amongst mankind.”

Martha feels woozy. The strange kind of woozy where it feels like everyone else is going about their lives like normal, heedless to her quiet, mindless suffering.

“...and I’m sorry about earlier,” Clark is saying to her, and Martha snaps out of her daze.

“You’re feeling better?” she says, patting Clark’s hand like some bedridden old lady, the motion more automatic than affectionate. But his smile is genuine, indulgent, and he’s wrapped a strong arm around her.

“Yes, I—”

“Did you apologize to those people for what you did to them?” Martha interrupts, nodding toward the doors, where she knows the rest of the Senate and audience members are waiting somewhere in the shadows.

“No, I haven’t had the time.” But he looks chagrined, and Martha gives him a little push.

“Make sure you do before they leave, you hear?”

He gives a short nod and Martha glances over to where Jonathan is shaking Hippolyta’s hand, thanking her for healing their son… and something twinges uncomfortably in her gut as Clark rises, ready to head home, waiting expectantly for her to follow.

“Wait, wait, I…”

And three sets of eyes turn to stare at her. But she finds herself gazing back into Hippolyta’s face for the first time since she arrived, her insides quaking as if she’s standing before the very judgement of God himself.

_Oh, little one… what did you do?_

But Hippolyta only steps forward, and her hand is cold and gentle against Martha’s cheek as she brushes a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear, like the shameless Amazon she is. If they were alone, Martha would’ve led her to a windowsill or the high steps of the Senate, set her down, crawled into her lap, and snuggled up against her, praying to any gods listening that Hippolyta would take it well… but she can only duck her head and press the most chaste of kisses to her lover’s palm, and then pull away from her touch.

_Please don’t be angry, please don’t be angry, please…_

“I’m… I’m not done with you yet.”

Something strange crosses Hippolyta’s face, something almost akin to fear, but Martha blocks out the sight of her as she fumbles with her tunic for an uncomfortable second, then she pulls a half-eaten apple from her pocket with a shaking hand and carefully sets it down onto the middle of the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YASSSSS MARTHA KENT STICK IT TO THEM
> 
> 1) Anyway, sorry that this chapter took a bit longer than it was supposed to??? There were just a lot of little things that I had to make sure happened, and some stuff I decided to take out. But thanks so much for your patience, and I hope it was worth the wait :P
> 
> 2) Also, I know there's a lot that's happened off-screen, like the battle at the Styx and the whole process with Clark getting de-Motherboxed, but since this is a romance story, I'm assuming you're here for the romance and I'm not going to actually write those parts out.
> 
> 3) I know there was some clamoring for Clark to get his ass kicked, but I think Hippolyta realizes he's being controlled by the Motherbox, and her highest priority is getting him back to normal ASAP and with as little fuss as possible (he's still her step-son, after all).
> 
> 4) In the next chapter there's a fun little plot twist, and Martha and Hippolyta talk about the whole lying thing, and we finally wrap up this section of the act and start laying the groundwork for the next!


	31. After the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one _hell_ of a roller coaster.

Martha Kent is leaving the Underworld.

The battle is over, the  _ arguments  _ are over.

The bruised apple had sat unceremoniously on the middle of the table, and for a long moment, they had all stared at it, its broken skin, the deep teeth marks in its firm, pulpy flesh. Then Hippolyta had pushed herself abruptly away from the table and swept the apple from the surface, sending it flying into the marble floor with a splat. She’d turned away without a word, apology, or accusation, stalking across the room like an agitated lion, leaving the rest of them in stunned silence. And then Martha had explained, almost giddy with delight, the significance of a half-eaten piece of fruit, already turned mushy and brown from its trip in her pocket.

Jonathan had carefully picked it up, his brow furrowed, and rubbed it lightly against his shirt.

_ The best harvest we’ve seen since before the war,  _ he’d murmured. The symmetry of it was perfect, somehow: the fruit of her ex-husband’s orchard now more dangerous, more deadly than any blade, any arrow, any training the Amazon army could boast.

_ I made a promise!  _ Hippolyta had shouted at last, eyes snapping like fire, her raised voice echoing like a roar across the empty arena. Martha had flinched at the fury in her voice, in her  _ face,  _ but she had turned to look at her, and without even rising to her feet, she had said,

_ So did WE. _

And then Clark had pushed himself up and ordered the Queen to,  _ stop shouting at my mother, _ then Antiope and the rest of the Justice League had burst in at the sound of raised voices, and Diana had taken her place at the table and forced the two parties to negotiate.

_ Half and half,  _ she’d begun, to the absolute horror of Barry Allen, who was thinking of Solomon, and delight of that boy Billy Batson, who—ironically—was not thinking of Solomon at all, but of milk…

_ One hour a year, and her body remains in a secure location, a guarded room,  _ Clark had countered stubbornly. And to this Antiope had made a mocking and decidedly unhelpful comment about the endurance of women compared to men, and Hippolyta had all but slapped her upside the head.

But in time, they bartered their way to an agreement, like Martha was a piece of livestock at a show—an observation she kindly kept to herself. Hippolyta looked angry enough as was, and Martha knew she was already walking on thin ice.

_ Winter Solstice. Sundown to sunup. Fourteen and a half hours. _

And then Martha’s heart is dropping into her stomach, because they’re all filing out, Jonathan laying a hand on Clark’s shoulder and nodding toward the door, where Lois Lane is waiting with the rest of them. Martha stays seated as the clamor slowly fades, and the last of the footsteps make their way up the stairs. Hippolyta is still at the table, leaning back in her seat, staring coldly at her, as if she’s not quite sure who or what she’s looking at.

Martha glances over at her, then sighs and rises. Those blue eyes follow her as she makes her way around the table.

“May I…” she mumbles, waving an absent hand at Hippolyta’s lap. The Queen raises an eyebrow, her face so expressionless it’s almost frightening, and Martha suddenly realizes she’s standing here gesturing to her wife’s crotch. “May I  _ sit?” _

For a second, Martha thinks she’s going to refuse, but her face softens just slightly, and she reaches out to take her arm and pull her forward into her lap. Martha breathes a long, low sigh of relief and curls up against her. And for a long moment, they sit together in this quiet room, listening to Martha breathe, listening to the soft throb of the rain over the trees and cobblestone outside.

“Why is it…” she begins, hesitating, wondering if it’s her place to speak, but she plunges on. “Why is it you feel like you have to keep lying to me?”

And Hippolyta pulls her closer, dipping her head to press a soft kiss to Martha’s forehead before she answers.

“Love is a choice… every day, you choose to love, or to not.” There’s a slight edge in her voice. “But when there is no choice in love, it can no longer be called such.” 

_ Slavery… _

“I will always choose you,” Martha scolds. “You know that.”

“You are young, Martha Kent. You are young, and you are rash. And you are insecure—”

“And I’m also not deaf, by the way—”

“How soon would it have taken you to disobey me if I had told you the truth, little one?”

Martha grumbles, but rests her cheek against cool metal and thinks back to her first years here, her struggle to find her footing amongst the Amazons, the always-lingering fear that Hippolyta would tire of her, move on, abandon her like all the others…

“Is it really over?” she finally asks in a small voice. The sounds of the others have faded, but she knows they’re wandering the parameter of the Embassy, maybe preparing at this very moment for their return to Earth.

“Is what over?”

“The arguing. Is it all settled?”

Hippolyta nods, and Martha reluctantly climbs out of her arms and brushes off her tunic.

“I guess I’ll go pack, then,” she says casually. The Queen doesn’t reply, and Martha leans in to press a soft kiss to her cold lips, then turns and makes her way up the stairs, her knees shaking.

“Wait.”

Martha freezes. She’s at the top of the arena, the first level of hell.

_ God, will this day never end? _

She glances down, and the Queen is still seated with her back to her. But the Senate is designed for every whisper, every muttered plea and protest to be heard from every corner of the room. And for a moment, there is silence, then she hears the soft rustle of fur against metal as Hippolyta shifts slightly.

“What is wrong with you?”

On another day, in another world, Martha would have scoffed at her wording— _ I don’t know, what’s wrong with YOU?— _ but terror trickles into her at the insinuation, the cool facade hiding the Queen’s true thoughts and true form better than Martha, despite the years of hiding her alien son’s superpowers and decades of hiding her own sexuality, ever could…

“I—I…” But her voice is trembling, and whatever lie she is trying to muster won’t come, and at last she raises her head and forces herself to admit,

“I didn’t do it.”

The words echo in the overwhelming room.

“...what?”

Her voice is powerful, foreboding, and Martha swallows hard.

“I didn’t eat it... it was John Constantine’s apple, he ate half and—and he gave it to me.”

The room is silence for a long moment. Then Hippolyta raises her head, and Martha immediately backs away, until her shoulder blades collide with the hard stone of the Senate walls. The Queen doesn’t speak, but when she turns slowly to look at her, there’s a new gleam in her eyes—admiration? Betrayal? Rage?

“I only meant—that is to say, I  _ do _ trust you,” Martha says in a rush, knowing how fast her wife can move if she wants to, how fast she could change to some other, terrifying form. “I trust you with my  _ life. _ Even… even when you don’t trust me with the truth.”

Her small voice is barely a frightened whisper, stumbling embarrassingly over itself as Hippolyta rises, and all at once she’s there, face to face, standing tall before her in all her glory, armor gleaming, and Martha’s shrinking further and further down the wall, one hand scrabbling wildly in the direction of the exit,  _ as if _ she could outrun her, and if she could, where would she even go—

“You deceived me?”

_ Oh, Hippolyta, why did the goddesses have to make you so beautiful and so terrible… _

“Yes?” It’s less a question and more a squeak. Hippolyta stares wordlessly at her, and Martha fumbles for something to say, something to fill the awful silence. “I mean, it was pretty good, right? We both got what we wanted... no one is dying, we get to see each other once a year, that’s—it’s good, right? ...right?”

Martha’s eyes dart toward the exit once more, and then back over Hippolyta’s pale face. She hasn’t moved, and Martha takes a tentative step forward, and her hand is trembling as she reaches out to brush her fingertips over the soft fur.

“So… gotcha?”

And then that’s when Hippolyta moves, and Martha lets out a muffled shriek as cold lips bruise against hers, burning, _consuming,_ and she’s pressed roughly up against the wall, one hand firm against her back, keeping her in place, and the other grasping at the hem of her tunic, groping hungrily for flesh, seizing at her thighs, ignoring her little kicks of protest, and Martha catches her breath and wildly fists thick gold, pulling so hard, she would’ve yanked out a handful of hair if this were any _human_ assailant—and the hand roving beneath her tunic has lifted her up, squeezing her buttock so hard, she won’t be able to sit properly for _days,_ and she lets out a growl of frustration as she jerks her head and her teeth rake over metal as she searches that long neck for skin, any softness, any weakness she can _bite—_ and she’s panting, grasping at hair, fur, cotton, biting hard on her own lip to suppress her whimpers as those sinful fingers move in, slipping between her legs from behind—

And then Hippolyta stops, moving her head slightly to the side, making Martha gasp as the cool, carved gold running down her cheek presses up against her flushed skin.

_ “Yes?” _

And Martha feels her heart quake, and she quickly hides her burning face in soft fur—it must look like they could barely  _ wait _ until the meeting’s end to start grabbing at each other, that they hadn’t even made it out of the  _ room  _ before pouncing—

“I—I heard…”

“She’s  _ fine.” _ Hippolyta’s voice is amused, and Martha wants to slap her, but she only tugs harder at that golden mane, refusing still to show her face, and no one moves for what seems like an eternity, and then,

“Ma, are you—”

_“Just get_ _OUT!”_ she cries, and her voice is sharp, less angry and more mortified, but the fingers between her legs have started to stroke at her once more, and she’s already here with her bare legs wrapped around her lover’s armored waist, and her thin arms wrapped around her lover’s armored neck, and she’s _dangerously_ close to making some very embarrassing noises as those slim fingers begin to tease her opening, and she doesn’t think she can take any more humiliation today—

And then he’s gone, and Hippolyta is throwing her down onto the table in the center of the arena, and Martha’s whining as strong hands yank her tunic up around her waist, and she’s cursing, gasping something about a  _ coward,  _ although she can’t remember for the life of her what Hippolyta might have been a coward about, and she’s fighting, kicking at her shoulders, beating her with her fists, trying to push her away, and it’s  _ exhilarating,  _ like Samson wrestling with the lion, like Jacob wrestling with God, and she’s begging for her to stop because _ they’ll hear,  _ but she doesn’t  _ want _ her to stop, and she wants them to hear, and the pressure is building, and she can’t, she’s going insane, and— _ dammit, Hippolyta, faster, harder— _

And then she’s pulling away, leaving Martha floundering and gaping like a fish, leaving her to come down unsatisfied from the brink, and when she shrieks and curses and flings hot, burning anger at her grinning wife, it echos back to her from every corner of the room... but Martha is not the woman she had been the first time they uncovered each other—she’s not here to beg prettily for release, she’s not here to  _ count  _ while her lover keeps her teetering on the edge, she’s not a human woman to be toyed with, to be teased, to be a plaything, she is a  _ Queen,  _ the royal consort, the joint ruler of the Underworld and all its inhabitants, and she will  _ not be— _

Strong hands seize her flailing wrists and press them back down against the fine oak wood, and those piercing eyes are waiting for her when the red-hot fury has died down to pure, unquenched lust.

“You’re a  _ coward,”  _ she hisses, struggling against the iron grip even though she knows it’s futile.

“You deceived me, made me out as a  _ fool _ before all the others,” the Queen replies calmly, bending to nip at Martha’s bottom lip, and then withdrawing quickly as Martha lunges forward to bite her.

“You can’t  _ make _ a fool, you can only  _ be _ one.”

_ “Hmm.”  _ The Queen transfers both of Martha’s wrists to one hand, and props her chin up with the other, her face strangely, infuriatingly thoughtful.

“You need to stop  _ lying _ to me. I’m not a child,” Martha snaps, kicking her for good measure before realizing how childish it is.

“Very well,” Hippolyta says, her eyes sparkling, missing none of the irony.

“Good. I’m glad that’s settled.” Martha retorts, cheeks burning. “Now finish the—finish what you started, and be quick about it, I still need to pack.”

Hippolyta doesn’t move for a long moment, but she makes a show of licking her lips, and Martha begins to squirm, thrusting her hips up into empty air, and the Queen gives a sigh that is almost melodramatic, then she finally obeys and eases herself down between her trembling thighs once more, and Martha lets out a gasp as she realizes she still can’t move her arms, and it’s because soft, slick tentacles are holding them firmly in place, and there are others creeping up over the edge of the table, each one with pulsing suction cups rippling down one side, and she can’t  _ breathe  _ as they slide over her bare skin, prodding at her, finding all her secrets, touching her all at once, and they  _ tickle,  _ and then they just  _ hurt,  _ but it’s a good pain, a wonderful pain, and Hippolyta’s head is bobbing between her legs, giving it to her just how she likes it, and when she comes, it feels like she’s weightless, helpless, breathless—and she’s barely had enough time to come down before Hippolyta pushes her back up again, and it’s too much,  _ it’s too much,  _ but she wants more, she wants all of it, every bit, and every time she feels gravity’s pull once more as she floats along the starry expanse, fulfilled, relieved,  _ convinced _ that that was the last one, the mad creature begins to consume again her in earnest, and it happens again, and again, and again, until she is sure that they are cursed to stay here until the Queen herself has collapsed with exhaustion, her hunger for Martha’s pleasure sated at last, or until she has died, her purpose fulfilled, wanting nothing more from her mortal life...

When she wakes, Hippolyta is gazing back at her. She’s still sore and trembling, but now she’s surrounded by water, and it is soft and warm and pleasurable, and Hippolyta is naked, and her arms are gentle as they circle her, and Martha sighs in relief and lets her head fall against her lover’s shoulder. Her muscled forearm is smooth and wet against her cheek, and its against this most erotic of surfaces that she mumbles,

_ “Come with me.” _

Already, she can hear the bustle from the courtyard below, the strange voices of the men mingled with those of the Amazons—was it only yesterday that Diana had come to them at sunrise, and mother and daughter had raced to the River Styx with the entire Amazon Army at their heels? Martha looks expectantly up at her wife’s face, blinking at her like a child, arms sliding around her waist, legs treading the warm water.

“...please?”

Hippolyta rolls her eyes at her antics, then pushes her out of the pool.

“Go pack, Martha Kent.”

But Martha crawls back, kneeling on the soft cushions lining the edge of the water, and she bends to kiss her half-submerged wife, like some wayward sailor stealing a kiss from a mermaid, and as she pulls away, Hippolyta presses her wet lips up to Martha’s ear. And her heart leaps as she whispers almost too softly to hear,

“The people will want to see you off… then we’ll leave after breakfast.”

Martha stares at her as she bobs slightly, clear droplets sparkling as they slide over her skin, the long hair plastered to her head and neck almost dark from the weight of the water...

“...we will?”

And Hippolyta’s lips twitch at the hope choking her words. 

“Only for a day. To get you settled.” And Martha grins, and Hippolyta grins back at her, and then she’s gone, those powerful limbs propelling her into the depths of the pool like a diver jumping from a platform, and she’s left alone, peering over the edge, watching as the ripples smooth slowly over the blurred figure swimming far below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. There’s a scene in Superman II where Lois Lane shoots Clark Kent in order to prove that he’s Superman, and after he’s forced to admit that he is, he’s mad because “Clark Kent would’ve been killed” if he wasn’t, and Lois says no, because she’d shot him with a blank #gotcha
> 
> 2\. Apparently this week was smut week and I didn’t realize it. Fun fact, next week is smut week, too! ~~Earth smut~~
> 
> 3\. The Senate is probably soundproof from outside, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t loud AF in there thanks to acoustics for debates/testimonies without microphones. :D
> 
> 4\. Thanks for reading!! I can't believe you're still reading!!


	32. A Whole Life in a Single Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming.

Hippolyta is strong.

She says nothing as Martha folds her nightgowns and slips them into a small pack with some of the more casual pieces of clothing she’s collected over the years.

_ Just something to remember... _

It’s not like she can go to church or the grocery store in her royal New Themyscrian robes, but there’s no reason why she can’t be comfortable around the house and the farm, and the Amazons have perfected comfort, beauty, practicality.

The Queen sits quietly in the corner and watches as Martha pulls the covers up over their bed, closes the wardrobe doors, and carefully does up the cloth fastens on the pack. The early morning sunlight is glowing softly over the stone walls... and it’s with a horrible, sinking feeling that Martha realizes she won’t be here to see it set.

“Maybe… maybe I was too...”

_ Maybe I rejoiced too soon. _

She had been so beside herself with glee, drunk on her own success and the fact that she would not be banished from her home until the day she died, she had forgotten that despite everything, she would still need to say goodbye to her wife, at least for a little while...

And every second that passes, that little while feels even longer.

But Hippolyta only rises and bends to kiss Martha’s trembling mouth, then she takes her hand and leads her out of their bedroom. And too late, Martha thinks to ask her for one last embrace, to feel the cold, familiar hardness of her armor against her chest, the weight of her arms pressing against her back, those long fingers tangling in her hair. She opens her mouth and dares a glance at Hippolyta’s face, but to her shock, there are tears glimmering in her wife’s eyes, even as they stare steadily ahead, her expression calm and placid as ever. And so Martha only squeezes the cold hand in hers, and when Hippolyta turns her face away as they step into the light, she does not speak or order her to look her in the eye. Hippolyta may be strong, and inhuman, and dead, but she is not _ emotionless, _ and today... Martha can’t bear it.

* * *

The Amazons have assembled, everyone bedecked in their finest armor and tunics, swords and helmets gleaming, jewelry sparkling, saris and kentes and scarves fluttering in the summer breeze. Hippolyta leads her through the town square, where the breakfast is laid as it had been on her first morning here, and every morning since. The woman stand abreast, watching as their Queens make their way to the center table, some of them weeping openly, others reaching out to touch the hems of their robes as they pass by. When she first came here, the square was bustling with laughter and conversation, but now, the only sound is the distant roar of the waterfalls, the soft sobs of the women, and their low murmurs.

_ The Lady…  _

Martha presses her face up against Hippolyta’s arm, hoping the coolness of her skin will quell the hot tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. She has eaten with these people, worshipped with these people, laughed with these people, and they had taught her the meaning of strength, resilience, love, justice...

They reach the table, and Martha notices that there had been places laid for the Justice League, but they had been called back to their world for an emergency, even John Constantine—although Martha isn’t entirely convinced he’s not lying at the bottom of a dungeon somewhere for his co-conspiring with her to fool the Queen.

“Did you have a chance to say goodbye to your daughter?” Martha asks softly after the prayers have been said and the platters of food are beginning to pass from hand to hand. But Hippolyta only gives a small smile, and fills Martha’s plate with more food than she could eat in a week.

“Do not worry yourself over me, Martha Kent. Today is for you.”

* * *

The breakfast dishes have been cleared away, and the black chariot is waiting. Martha had barely been able to get a bite down, choosing instead to pretend to listen to the conversations buzzing quietly around her: Antiope describing to her and the other warriors surrounding them in graphic detail about what sounds like a very complicated and  _ dangerous _ dance move; some farmers a few tables away chattering about irrigation, some burly fishermen talking about the day’s catch and laughing together with the weavers who mend their nets, the old women wagging their fingers, the little girls sneaking food to the various animals scurrying beneath the tables…

It’s home. This is her home, more home than anyplace in the universe, seen and unseen, this food, these tables, the limestone walls, the dishes,  _ Hippolyta— _

Almost too soon, the Queen is standing, and the square goes silent and solemn once more. Martha looks up in alarm, unsure if she was supposed to rise as well, but Hippolyta rests a gentle hand against her back and looks out over the crowd.

“Amazons...”

They stare back, but their eyes are on Martha, and Martha’s eyes are on Hippolyta.

“...this is Martha Kent.”

The Amazons murmur in reply, too many voices for her to understand what they are saying, but the sentiment is clear, and she swallows hard as Hippolyta offers her a strong hand and leads her to her seat upon the black chariot. The horses toss their heads, and then they’re lifting off before Martha has a chance to shout that she’s changed her mind, she’s staying right here, bully the deals, bully the agreements, bully the  _ Justice League— _

“I’m glad—I’m glad you’re…” she tries to say instead as the horses gallop into the air, but Hippolyta only strokes back her hair and points over the edge of the chariot.

“Look, little one,” she says softly.

And Martha looks, and she gasps. The castle is surrounded by a sea of figures, faces, people staring up at them, at  _ her,  _ eyes shielded against the rays of the sun. It’s like the entire population of Elysium came out to see her off, and they’re waving and smiling, less solemn and refined than the Amazons, and more rejoicing as their Queens appear in the morning sky, like a bird, or a plane...

_ They will tell our story. _

Martha wipes her eyes as the Styx comes into view, its wide mouth dotted with ships. Laura Kent is probably down there somewhere, arms crossed, a smirk on her mouth, her crew dancing and waving their hats…all the people she met over the years, soldiers and sailors and farmers and warriors and queens…

Hippolyta seizes the reins and leans forward, and Cerberus yelps happily as they speed past, and then—

“Kiss me.”

And Martha stares as Hippolyta turns to her, lips parted slightly, eyes gleaming, tears spilling down her cold, weathered cheeks at last, and the stars are beginning to speed past, the glimmering light of the galaxies surrounding them, and Martha reaches out and cups her lover’s wet cheeks with shaking hands, and she kisses her, and it’s a tender kiss, a gentle kiss, the kind of kiss that takes her breath away, that makes her feel shy and bold all at once, and even when their lips have parted, they remain, cheek to cheek, nose to nose, life and death, heaven and earth…

“I love you.”

And then Hippolyta slowly pulls away, and Martha’s heart skips a beat at the familiar farmhouse sitting behind her… the fields… the glowing rays of the sun just barely peeking its head over the horizon…

She grips tightly to Hippolyta’s hand and carefully steps out of the chariot onto the dirt path, all at once embarrassed about her house and its peeling paint, and broken shingles, and rotting boards on the front porch.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, it’s such a wreck…” she stammers, but Hippolyta reaches out and sweeps a stray hair behind her ear, and she’s smiling, and she waves a graceful hand out toward the rustling fields.

“Breathe, Martha Kent. You’re home.”

And Martha throws back her head and takes a deep breath, her eyes gazing blearily up at the bluest sky she’s seen in thousands of years, and Hippolyta does the same, and all at once they’re both laughing and crying, and she tugs Hippolyta up the steps into her rickety old house, and she doesn’t even mind that the parlor is lined with boxes, or that the refrigerator has nothing but a dry, old meatloaf sitting on the top shelf. Hippolyta is here, she’s  _ here,  _ and for a single, perfect day, nothing will dare tear them asunder.

* * *

None of Martha’s clothes fit her giant goddess wife, so she gives her one of Clark’s old sweaters and a pair of slacks she’s sure he never wore, and when Hippolyta turns around to face her, Martha’s eyes go so wide, she’s surprised they don’t pop out of her head. 

“You—you look…”

“Terrible? Absurd?” Hippolyta prompts, a teasing eyebrow raised as she reaches out to slide her sweatered arms around Martha’s waist.

_ “Attractive,” _ Martha sputters, pushing her away so she can look at her again. Hippolyta stares at her, a questioning smile on her face, and Martha backtracks. “I mean, not that you didn’t—that’s not what I...”

But her tongue is tied, and Hippolyta steps forward and bends down to kiss her, and Martha melts as those familiar lips silence her nonsense. And then Hippolyta slips away, making her way down the stairs, and Martha can hear her beginning to tear open boxes with her bare hands, the clink of silverware mingling with her voice muttering something about dust.

Martha changes into her own clothes, scowling at the elastic waistband of her jeans, the tight, constricting loops of her underwear and sleeves. But there’s nothing to be done about that now, not if she needs to go out in public...

“Hippolyta?”

And the goddess looks up as Martha comes down the stairs, still in a slight daze, shrugging on her frumpy Fall jacket.

“I need to pick up some things from the store, and I… not that I don’t appreciate you wanting to help me unpack, but I was wondering if you could maybe…”

And Martha’s gaze darts outside as she fumbles with how to ask her wife to do more…  _ difficult  _ work, the things she can’t do on her own after she’s gone.

“Would you like me to fix your roof, Martha Kent?”

Martha pauses in mid-sentence, blinking at her. 

“What’s wrong with the roof?”

Hippolyta laughs and waves her off.

“Don’t worry, little one. Just pick up something for me while you are at the storeroom, hmm?”

* * *

Sears never recovered from the alien attack in 2013, and rumors were already abounding about the company’s financial troubles long before then. The building is still an eyesore of rubble and crumbling walls, and Martha is chagrin to see that weeds are starting to pop up amidst the ruin. Across the way, a new, shiny CVS has sprung up seemingly overnight, and Martha rolls her old eyes as she urges her old truck past its blindingly red letters.

When she pulls up once more at the farmhouse, Dusty runs out to meet her, barking to high heaven, tongue hanging out of his mouth. Martha yells and swerves to avoid hitting him, and she breathes a sigh of relief when she kills the engine and still hears the stupid dog barking like the world is ending.

“Quiet!” she shouts almost before she’s swung the car door open, but he leaps up to lick at her face, and she notices that he looks… _ different. _

“Did she give you a  _ bath?”  _ Martha asks incredulously, pushing the dog head and dog tongue away from her face. Dusty’s fur is brushed and glossy and  _ clean,  _ and Martha darts a glance toward the house and gasps.

The walls are gleaming with a wet coat of fresh paint, the broken, rotting porch boards replaced, the missing roof shingles reattached and secured… even the trees lining driveway have been pruned, and her poor flowerbeds have been weeded. 

_ Hippolyta... _

Some strange movement catches her eye, and Martha turns, her mouth still gaping, and sees Aethon cantering across the grass, his nose in the air, and he barely crashes to a halt before sticking his whole face into the car, sniffing at the grocery bags in the passenger seat.

“Stop, stop!” Martha yells, pushing him away. “They’re not for  _ you.” _

And all at once Hippolyta is there with her damn sweater and smirking mouth, and Martha looks sheepishly up at her from amidst the animals frolicking around her.

“Help me with the bags, darling,” she orders, pushing her way past the horse and opening the passenger door. Hippolyta reaches in to gather up all the bags at once, then leans down.

“Hold on.”

“Hold onto what?” Martha asks, looking down at the bags, but it seems like the Amazons goddess has them all secured.

“Hold onto  _ me,” _ Hippolyta says with a cheeky grin. “The porch is still wet.”

And Martha slips her arms around Hippolyta’s neck and she almost laughs from the absurdity of it as they float into the house without smudging a single stroke of wet paint.

True to her request, Hippolyta hasn’t touched a thing inside the house. Half-open boxes sit atop stacks of unopened boxes, and the kitchen is still drab and bare, with only a set of plastic cutlery and a roll of paper towels to show that anyone lives here. 

“I’ll get started on lunch,” Martha says as she starts pulling the bags from her wife’s arms and unloading the contents onto the kitchen counter. “You just relax…”

And her voice trails off at the sight of the tray of egg-salad sandwiches and bowl of fresh salad on the kitchen table. 

“How…?”

And Hippolyta tries—and fails—to look guilty through her pride.

“I borrowed a few last things from the House of Mystery. Zatanna didn’t mind, since you won’t be needing them in the Underworld anymore.”

Martha swallows hard at the reminder, and sets the 6-pack of Clark’s favorite beer onto the counter with a dull clank.

_ “Lyta…” _

And all at once, Hippolyta is there, arms around her, and Martha trembles against her.

“It is only a year, Martha Kent. Only a year, and then you will be back once more. That is what you fought for, was it not? You should be rejoicing in your victory, not grieving over the compromise.”

“Only fourteen hours, though,” Martha mumbles against factory-made polyester. “How will we ever catch up in fourteen hours?”

Hippolyta pulls away slightly, her eyes wide with surprise, and then she gives her a smile that’s full of mischief.

“It’s fourteen hours  _ earth time,  _ little one. You’ll be in the Underworld for 2500 years.”

Martha stares, then gives a strange, helpless laugh.

_ “God,  _ Hippolyta, you’ll be the death of—did they know, did Clark know?”

“Your son spent enough time in the land of the dead to know its rules. If he forgot, that is entirely his fault.”

And with that the Queen sweeps the food and Martha into the living room, where the couch has been unwrapped and the coffee table cleared, and an open box of photo albums sits beside the armrest.

“Enough of the dead, Martha Kent. Come, I want to hear the stories behind these photos. Some of them are quite _ amusing...” _

* * *

Martha falls asleep.

Some of the photos  _ were  _ quite amusing, like the ones from Jonathan and Clark’s fishing trips, or the ones of their family days at the lake or the zoo. Then there are albums from their school days: school plays, church picnics, Christmas parties… there are old polaroids, faded prints, little black and white shots of her and her parents when she was a baby. She had laughed, and she had fought back tears, and she had snuggled deeper into her wife’s embrace, until at last, she had pushed yet another heavy photo album aside and closed her eyes, her belly full of good food, the afternoon sun filtering through the dusty windows and neatly-pruned trees, and her wife’s strong arms around her waist, holding her tight.

“We were supposed to get started on the barn today,” she murmurs, absently patting Hippolyta’s cold hand and rubbing her cheek against a soft breast, trying to get comfortable. “...I guess we’ll do it tomorrow.”

And then she’s drifting into a land of peace and light and quiet and the low, steady sound of her own breath. Hippolyta kisses the top of her head and pulls her close. She does not sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But wait, there’s more! It’s just I got to the end of my word limit (I TRY to keep the chapters between 2-3k, and decided to split this one in two). Next chapter, Hippolyta and Martha visit one of Martha’s old stomping grounds for dinner, and then they visit another old stomping ground for, um, dessert. :P
> 
> Thanks for reading! I know this chapter is a little more sleepy than the last few, but I hope it wasn’t too different! Also I just love the idea of Hippolyta coming in and doing a whole bunch of superspeed home improvement repairs in the span of time it takes Martha to go grocery shopping. Talk about a dream woman, haha.


	33. You'll Be a Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha shows Hippolyta how things are done in Kansas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Some angst.

Martha wakes to Jonathan Kent’s face staring back at her.

She blinks, and when he doesn’t blink back, she realizes that his face is faded and frozen in time, a photograph, a memory from another world. Dim sunlight is filtering through the windows, and Martha raises her groggy head. This couch… this _house—_

Martha sits up, panic seizing so violently at her limbs, she almost falls onto the floor.

_“Hippolyta!”_

The light outside is beginning to wane **—** or perhaps beginning to grow? How long had she been asleep, wasting her precious seconds?

“What is it?”

And Martha heaves a sigh of relief. Hippolyta has appeared on the opposite side of the screen door, hammer in hand like some erratic handyman, and Martha stumbles across the room to fling open the door and throw her arms around her.

“I thought you left,” she mumbles, rubbing her face against her dirt-smudged sweater.

“You said there were some repairs needed on the barn,” Hippolyta says, carefully setting the hammer aside and wrapping her in her arms. “I thought I would let you rest.”

“Don’t let me rest,” Martha says grumpily. “Don’t even let me _blink.”_

Hippolyta steps back and looks at her, a strange expression on her face, something akin to pity, and Martha huffs.

“I seem to recall some beautiful goddess telling me on a dark field that I needed to _talk to her_ when I was upset…”

“You have lived through thousands of years in the Underworld, Martha Kent. You need _only_ blink, and we will be together once more.”

“And what about _you?”_ Martha says stubbornly, crossing her arms and raising her head to look her lover in the eye, her chin jutting out slightly. Hippolyta raises an eyebrow. “A year on Earth is a long time, in the Underworld.”

“Are you worried, Martha Kent? We have already discussed this at length—”

“I don’t want you to wait. For me.”

Hippolyta stares at her. Martha stares at the dusty beams just behind her head.

“...what are you saying?” 

“It’s a long time, is all,” Martha mumbles, turning away as if it’s final, but Hippolyta seizes her arm, like she had beside that lake—only four weeks ago, in this world...

“That is not an option,” she says in a low voice, and Martha jerks herself away, crossing her arms once more.

“It _is,_ though. You can participate in the festivals with the rest of our people. You—you can live as you did, in the times of peace and war, and love them as freely as before. I won’t… I won’t hold you to it. It’s too long. I want you to live, experience things, not hold yourself back, because of me.”

“No.”

Martha groans and all but slams the screen door in Hippolyta’s face.

“You already forced me to break one of my promises,” the Queen says coldly, making Martha wince. “I will not break the one I made with _you.”_

“I’m _telling_ you to.”

“The entire pantheon of goddesses could not satisfy me. What makes you think I would invite some stranger into our bed when _you_ are the only one who can sate me?”

“I want you to be _happy.”_

Hippolyta steps back, and the expression on her face takes Martha’s breath away.

“How... can I _ever_ be happy without you?”

* * *

Martha forgot what the diner smells like.

Of course, it changed based on the time of day (despite the banner draped above the entrance proclaiming that _breakfast is served all day),_ and on what regulars were here: Lindsey Ramping with his breakfast special: two slices of toast, with bacon and two eggs over easy, Father Leone and his fish fry, Pete Ross Sr. with his Reuben and Helen Ross with her chicken pot pie... and then there's always some grandma or mom out with the kids, stopping in after a day at the pool, or a trip to the mall or the zoo. Martha would still grab a few packs of crayons and paper menus for those groups, even though more often than not, the little ones would be pestering the adults for some electronic device, and then spend the rest of the meal barely touching their chicken tenders or grilled cheese in favor of staring at a screen…

“What are _you_ doing here?!”

Martha looks up as the hostess comes around the corner to stare and her and Hippolyta’s figures standing just inside the double glass doors.

“Goodness, service sure has gone down around here,” Martha scolds, giving the woman—Nell—a reproaching look before hugging her tightly.

“We were hoping you’d stop in sometime soon—and we saw you got your house back! How on _earth_ did you manage it?”

And Martha grimaces and shakes her head, and seizing some menus for herself and Hippolyta from behind the counter.

“Oh… you know. Life insurance finally kicked in,” she says shortly, but she gives a weak smile before nodding toward the back of the diner. “Is the booth by the kitchen open?”

“Sure. It’s Tuesday,” Nell Lang says, casting a curious glance over Hippolyta’s towering figure, but saying nothing as Martha leads the way past the staring faces and half-eaten plates to a secluded booth in the corner. Martha slides in and tosses aside her purse. Her hands are shaking.

“God, I forgot…”

_The smell. The taste. The TVs. The boombox on the front counter playing the country music station. These plastic tables, these plastic menus, the washcloths and spray bottles they would use to clean them, the old men in their hats and jackets, the waitress aprons with their nametags, the sunlight reflecting off the cars as they race along the highway—_

_“Breathe,_ Martha Kent,” Hippolyta says softly, reaching across the table to take her hand. Her touch burns like fire, like ice, like something forbidden, and Martha yanks her hand away as the waitress comes over to get their drink orders.

“Two waters, one coffee, one hot tea, and two chicken dinners, with the salad and mashed potatoes sides,” Martha says all in a rush, practically shoving the menus into her hands. The bemused young woman goes back to the kitchen, and the clamor of dishes and steam and spitting oil pours over them as the doors swing out and then back in. They don’t speak until after their drinks have arrived, and Martha has taken to worrying the handle of her mug of coffee and staring out the window.

“The food is good here,” she says at last, not taking her eyes away from the cars speeding past. “And we’ve known the owner and her husband since I was a little girl.”

Hippolyta opens her mouth to reply, but she stiffens and her gaze darts away. And two seconds later, a man lumbers past their booth, making his way to the bathrooms. Martha’s lip curls humorlessly. Hippolyta is just as tense as she is, here, in this world of man… maybe this was a mistake, maybe she and Hippolyta should’ve just made a nice dinner for themselves in the house, or maybe they should’ve gone to Themyscira instead of Smallville, after all, there were no rules of _where_ she needed to be on Earth, just that she had to be in the land of the living—

“This is your world.” Hippolyta’s eyes are on her now, and her gaze is as soft and tangible as a caress. “These are your people, and they love you.”

_If this is my world, why am I so embarrassed by it? If they love me, why don’t I want them to see me, to recognize me?_

But Martha doesn’t answer. It’s not until two platters of greasy fried chicken and generous pats of gravy-drenched mashed potatoes are set down before them that she finally raises her head and looks her golden-haired lover in the eye. She looks so beautiful and regal, even with one of Clark’s suit jackets stretched over her broad shoulders, the front hanging open over her soft, knit sweater. She doesn’t belong here, this goddess of old, sitting in this plastic booth, with this homestyle comfort food, and these ordinary people going about their ordinary lives…

But Martha does. 

Even after everything, her thousands of years as a Queen of the Underworld, she’s still Martha Kent: William Clark’s daughter, Jonathan Kent’s wife, Clark Kent’s ma... she’s still a farmgirl, a tough little housewife who never went to college, whose only pride was in taking care of her boys...

“This looks wonderful.” Hippolyta’s gentle voice breaks into her swirl of thoughts, and she looks up to see that the Queen has picked up her knife and fork, apparently about to dig into her fried chicken, like the fish out of water she is—

“Use your hands.”

Hippolyta looks at her for a long moment, then deliberately sets down her utensils. And her eyes are sparkling as she leans forward, peering into Martha’s face.

“Show me, then. Show me how it is _done_ in Kansas,” she murmurs, and Martha smiles at last, and Hippolyta smiles back, and there are butterflies in her stomach, as if this is their first date, and she feels both exhilarated and embarrassed, hyperaware of every second, every movement, every bite, praying to God that no clueless relatives or neighbors spot them and waltz over to ply them with loud, mortifying stories, or graphic descriptions of their health problems…

In another world, another life, Martha would have fed her wife’s fried chicken to her, and then licked her fingers afterward. She would’ve pulled the crispy skin away and set it aside, telling herself that she would be good and remember what the doctor said about cholesterol, and then when the food was gone, she would’ve leaned up against Hippolyta’s hard body and munched on that skin until it all mysteriously disappeared _(Oh no, what will I ever do to work off all of this fat?_ and Hippolyta would grin and kiss her guilty, greasy lips).

“Fine,” Martha says instead, wiping her fingers on her napkin and picking up her piece. “I’ll show you how it’s done in Kansas—and all other _decent_ parts of the world.”

But she watches as the Queen sinks her teeth into the tender meat, and barely stops herself from dropping her own as Hippolyta closes her eyes and gives a soft moan of pleasure.

“This is _delicious._ Why have you never made this for us before?”

She doesn’t answer, _can’t_ answer, frozen as she is, and Hippolyta looks at her curiously.

“...Martha?”

_Not now, not now, not now..._

“I… I think I’ll be showing you how we do some other things in Kansas, too.”

* * *

The stars are beginning to come out, and the roads are dark. It may have bored her time and time again that Kansas was flat as a pancake, but it never failed to take her breath away, the open, empty country roads, with the scattered lights twinkling in the distance, the farmland rolling out to the edge of the world, the blanket of stars overhead almost close enough to touch. The old truck rattles along, the headlights barely flashing across the bumpy asphalt and tangled weeds along the shoulder. Martha gives a contented sigh and reaches over to take Hippolyta’s hand, keeping the other secure on the wheel.

“Did you get enough to eat?”

And Hippolyta turns to look at her in the dark. Her hand shifts slightly, and Martha gasps as cold fingers close around her wrist, and cold lips press up against her ear, ticking the side of her face.

_“No.”_

* * *

_Tonight is for you._

They’re in the middle of a field, and the night is alight with the rustle of leaves, the buzz of cicadas and the call of crickets. Martha had been glad it was so dark as she crawled into the bed of the truck and beckoned for her lover to follow.

_Darling…_

She had cleaned it inside and out until every bit of grime from her roadtrip to Metropolis was gone, and then she had filled it with soft pillows and quilts and a few faux sheepskin rugs she’d found on sale.

“I’m sorry it’s so cramped,” she whispers, taking Hippolyta’s hand in one of her own and slipping the other beneath that sweater, her palm tingling as it meets soft, cool skin.

“It is perfect,” Hippolyta whispers back, tugging Martha’s shirt up over her head, and then frowning slightly at the netting she’d stretched from the roof to the trunk. “What is this for?”

“It’s for _bugs,”_ Martha replies, tugging impatiently at her lover’s top and getting nowhere. “Mosquitos and moths and— _mmmph.”_

Hippolyta has cut off her wife’s entomology lesson with a deep kiss, and Martha hears her tearing the netting away with one hand. And when she whines in protest, the lips against hers pull back an inch and whisper,

_“The mountains bow down to me, Martha Kent.”_

Martha rolls her eyes and pushes her away.

“That’s _all_ well and good, but if I wake up with a single bug bite...” she warns, taking the moment to wrestle Hippolyta’s sweater away from her body. Her skin looks even more beautiful in the moonlight.

“Bug bites, hmm? And what about _goddess_ bites?”

“That would depend on the goddess,” Martha says primly, pushing her down once more and stealing another kiss. Hippolyta gives another low, delicious moan and Martha tosses away the last of her uncomfortable underwear and straddles her, skin against skin, pushing those strong arms up over her head, out of the way. “It would depend on her tongue, and her teeth… and her _taste…”_

_“Martha Kent.”_

The keys are still in the ignition, and one of Martha’s old, worn cassettes is playing softly over the car speakers, Neil Diamond crooning at them from 50 years ago in that low, sexy voice of his…

_“Girl… you’ll be a woman, soon. Soon, you’ll need a man…”_

“I… disagree with the premise of this song—”

“Stop _complaining,”_ Martha orders, but she’s fighting back giddy laughter as she brushes her lips across her lover’s ribs, kissing every scar, admiring every muscle. “Just lie back and enjoy it.”

_I know I will,_ she thinks, scooting down and and slinging her lover’s legs over her shoulders. Tonight, they’re in Man’s World, and the deed is done: she is no longer bound to her promise to not eat the food of the Underworld. Hippolyta’s thighs tremble and she lets out a loud groan as Martha presses in, remembering the way Aphrodite had taught her to pleasure her wife… her arms slide up, fingers biting into hard muscle as she eats her out in ways she’s never done before, ways she’s never been allowed before… Hippolyta is gasping her name, her hands gripping the pillows, the furs, the side of the truck, and Martha hopes she did a soundproofing spell while she was up there doing her bug-repellant magic, because the screams when she comes… Martha groans as a trickle of warm nectar coats her tongue, and she presses in with even more vigor, as if the taste of her lover has whipped her into a frenzy, and now she can do nothing but worship at her alter with the hopes of her hunger being sated again and again…

* * *

When it’s over, Hippolyta gathers her up into her arms and kisses her damp forehead. Martha is exhausted, her jaw and lips sore, her body ravaged and singing with pleasure. The moon has set in the west, leaving the stars to extinguish one by one in anticipation of the rising sun. Martha clings to her, as she always does, her trembling mouth occasionally letting out soft little happy noises, her skin slick with sweat and…

_“Don’t close your eyes, little one,”_ Hippolyta whispers, pulling her close as she begins to snore quietly. _“Don’t blink.”_

But Martha Kent is still human, and the human body has its limits. She doesn’t feel as Hippolyta kisses her again, doesn’t hear as the crickets cease their mating calls and retreat to the damp earth, as the birds raise their heads and begin to sing to the brightening sky, as the early morning breeze begins to rustle through the leaves.

_“Martha… darling, wake up. Please, wake up.”_

But Martha only presses her cheek deeper into the pillow, and then a sleepy sigh parts her lips, and she murmurs,

_“Don’t be long.”_

And then she sinks even further beneath the covers, and Hippolyta stares down at her, tears in her eyes and a trembling smile on her mouth. And then she slowly draws the covers up over her lover’s shivering body, tucks her silver hair behind her ear one last time, and presses the softest of kisses to her tired lips.

_“Oh, Martha Kent… my little moon, my light in darkness… how dark my world will be without you.”_

Martha doesn’t respond, but she smiles slightly in her sleep, and Hippolyta slowly pulls away. The eastern sky is already a pale blue, and she cannot linger any longer. The truck creaks quietly as she eases herself over the edge, her bare feet meeting the cool earth. But her eyes don’t leave her wife’s peaceful, contented face, drinking in every last detail even as her vision blurs with hot tears.

_“I will come for you.”_

Martha’s chest rises and falls gently in response beneath the patterned quilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Fun fact, someone is going to get M.U.R.D.E.R.E.D. in a year for not waking someone else up for a Very Important goodbye…
> 
> 2) Another fun fact, I put this chapter off all week, and then wrote… pretty much the whole thing _today._ Which is not ideal. But, oh well. :P
> 
> 3) Also, I may or may not be an emotional wreck right now… but I hope you liked it, and the reunion is actually much sooner than you think, and some fun things will happen in the meantime! And at least there’s no overbearing mom ~~Demeter~~ here to make life a living hell, right? Right??


	34. First Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Some angst

Martha is woken by a horse nose huffing in her face.

The sun is high, almost directly overhead, and someone is apparently hungry.

“You _have_ food,” she grumbles, pushing Aethon away and rubbing her eyes. The world overhead is blue, as if they spent the night beneath the stars, or on the beach, but she’s surrounded by unfamiliar quilts and pillows and plants and the _sunlight—_

_Oh, no..._

Martha throws the covers aside and stumbles to her feet. She’s naked, and her hair is in an embarrassing, tell-tale tangle, and her clothes are folded neatly in the corner of the truck bed—and beside them is a man’s suit jacket and knit sweater—

_“Hippolyta!”_

But the only response is Aethon whining plantitively and thousands of corn stalks brushing up against one another in unison. There’s a louder rustle from behind her, and Martha spins around, but it’s only Nyctaeus… she has an apple clamped between her teeth, and she throws it at her partner’s feet before trotting over to Martha’s devastated figure and nuzzling her with a soft nose, as if to comfort her.

_No, no, no, no…_

But she’s gone. The sun is up, she has to be gone, long gone. And without even a goodbye...

_Hippolyta, no…_

The horse whines softly, and Martha wraps her arms around her strong neck, not sure if she’s comforting or being comforted.

“Your… your _Queen,”_ Martha chokes, burying her face against Nyctaeus’ long mane. “...is a horrible, _horrible_ person.”

But she turns and seizes the sweater with shaking hands and smothers herself in its soft folds, breathing in the lingering scent of her lover, trying to muffle her tears as they wrack through her body—she left with out a goodbye, _without a goodbye—_ she’ll kill her, that’s what she’ll do, she’ll throttle the life out of the Queen of the Dead for abandoning her like some thief in the night, like some awkward one-night stand, like some high schooler sneaking away before daylight—

_Dammit, Hippolyta, dammit, dammit, dammit._

But maybe it was too hard for her, too. 

For all her strength, for all her moral resolve... maybe she couldn’t bear it. Maybe she had stared down at her, a hand outstretched to shake Martha from her slumber, lingering for a long moment… and then turning away in grief. She had lived through the great wars of their people, and suffered countless wounds, buried countless sisters... she’d watched as the man she loved betrayed her and sought to destroy all she held dear, watched as her daughter left her behind to fight for a thankless world, watched as clueless men clamored to take away her right to see her wife, to hold her, to love her, to start a family in the place they both called home...

Maybe she knew that she couldn’t, that she _wouldn’t_ be able to do it.

_But that doesn’t make it right, Lyta. It doesn’t make it any better, any better at all._

Nyctaeus is rubbing her cheek against Martha’s back, and Aethon has come around to lick away her tears with an appley tongue, and all she wants to do is curl up into a little ball and crawl back under the covers, and maybe stay right here in this field and cry until Hippolyta comes back next year…

A shirt falls onto her face, followed by her pants, and Martha groans.

“Why are you two _here?”_ she grumbles, rubbing the tears away from her cheeks and grumpily pulling on her clothes. The horses nicker at her encouragingly, and she mutters at them in Ancient Greek to _kindly shut up._ But the next thing she knows, she’s crawling back into the driver’s seat, and the battery somehow didn’t give out after playing music all night, and then she’s driving back to the house, the horses racing her through the fields.

* * *

The first thing she does is take a shower, and she stands under the stream of hot water until it begins to run cold. It’s the first time in… decades, centuries, that she’s taken a shower instead of a bath in one of the hot pools. It’s not nearly as satisfactory, but she can’t help but feel a little better as she emerges, her skin flushed and clean. The windows are open, and sunlight is streaming through the glass.

It’s already noon. Eight hundred years have already passed since sunrise. Martha stares at the microwave clock and shivers. Eight hundred years… she moves like a zombie to the fridge and takes out one of the leftover sandwiches from lunch yesterday. There are other things, things she’d bought from the grocery store, but she doesn’t feel like unpacking the pots and pans and dishes. She grabs a paper towel and makes her way to the couch and sits heavily.

She wonders what Hippolyta is doing, right now, in their world where times moves slower than she can imagine.

She wishes she hadn’t told her to sleep with other people in her absence. Circe’s beautiful painted face flashes in her memory, her hideously naked body on display for all to see as she lounges in the Queen’s lap, arms around her neck—

_That is not an option._

The pantheon—Athena and Armetis tearing her apart, making her shriek, making her groan, Demeter making her beg… Martha watching openmouthed, wondering what on earth, _how_ on earth she was ever going to satisfy this insatiable goddess...

_Don’t close your eyes, little one._

Hippolyta’s voice echoes in her mind like a distant memory, like a dream. Already, a fading memory. At this very time twenty-four hours ago, just yesterday, Hippolyta had been gathering the groceries up into her arms and carrying her across the porch into the house… and they had been laughing...

_Enough of the dead, Martha Kent._

“But it’s not fair,” she whispers to nobody, and tears fill her eyes. “It’s not _fair.”_

* * *

For a long while, she sits on the couch, absently chewing the food her wife had made, barely aware of the dog running around underfoot. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine that Hippolyta is just in the barn, hammering away at something, or upstairs, hanging up some pictures or arranging some furniture—they could’ve lived here together. Run the farm together, raised horses together. Maybe even adopt some kids, some more alien orphans, and she could’ve taught them how to cook and sew and do their homework, and Hippolyta would have shown them around the farm, taken them down to the creek to fish, told them about the little critters and insects and plants down there...

The landline rings from where it’s sitting on the floor, and Martha nearly jumps out of her skin, exclaiming something decidedly unchristian.

 _“God,_ who on earth could— _hello?”_

Dusty is barking loudly, startled from his dozing, and Martha waves frantically at him.

“Ah—Mrs. Kent,” a bored-sound voice comes through the phone, and Martha seizes Dusty’s collar and glares at him.

 _“Be quiet, for the love of_ … yes? Hello?”

“It’s Alfred, ma’am. Alfred Pennyworth.”

_Alfred… the butler._

“Yes, of course,” she says, but she hears the impatience in her voice and forces herself to take a breath. “Alfred, how—how are you?”

“I’m sorry to tell you that Master Wayne and Master Kent and the rest are caught up in some intergalactical confusion. I’ve been asked to inform you that they’ll be there as soon as possible to assist you with your move-in, but they likely won’t manage it today, if this week—”

“I don’t need any help,” Martha says sharply.

The line goes silent.

“I _don’t,”_ she says again, trying not to notice the desperation edging into her voice. “The Queen came over with me, and we—we got most of it sorted. So tell them not to worry… tell them not to come.”

“Mrs. Kent…”

Dusty barks again, and Martha winces.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Pennyworth, my dog—my dog is chewing something he shouldn’t—Dusty, _stop,_ don’t do that! I’m so sorry, I should really be getting back to...”

“Of course. I’ll let them know what you said. And Mrs. Kent…” Alfred’s dry voice softens just a touch, barely noticeable over the monotone telephone line. “Welcome back.”

Martha throws the phone toward the cradle without answering, then she collapses back onto the couch, wincing at the sight of the dusty rafters, the gloomy furniture, the stacks of still-unpacked boxes, the sunlight filtering through the filthy windows…

Already, New Themyscira seems a dream, with its open rooms, sunlit-hallways, marble floors, dustless air…

“There now, that’s no use,” Martha mumbles, sitting up and rubbing at the salt water trickling down her cheeks. “That’s no use to _anybody.”_

But there’s something about this house, with all the memories she and Jonathan were supposed to make, the years they were supposed to share as they grew old together, the gaggle of children they’d dreamed of having, the grandbabies… 

_I know you, Martha. I know you._

Wasn’t it centuries and centuries ago that Jonathan had taken her to the house he built in New Smallville, and asked her to come back to him? Why did it feel like she was losing him all over again, and now with Clark off saving the universe, and Hippolyta gone without a goodbye—this was the world she was supposed to live in? This was the life they’d all fought so hard for her to live—a quiet, meaningless life, where no one noticed when she was gone and no one noticed when she was back? She could be in New Themyscira right now, gardening or exploring or listening to the Senate or lying on the beach, knowing that at the end of the day, she would go home to her wife, and—and they could move forward with their plans to start a family, and she wouldn’t be here feeling so fragile with her aching heart and her eyes sore from so much crying—

The doorbell rings, and Martha jerks for the second time in as many hours.

_What in the hell…?_

She wipes furiously at her eyes, and for a moment, she thinks Alfred was wrong and it’s the Justice League after all. But from her spot on the couch, she can see the shadows of two women standing on the porch, holding strange, bulky things in their arms, chattering together as they look out over the cornfield.

Martha groans softly. The last thing she needs is some nosy neighbors coming by with their small talk and their pity looks and their pity food, and for a split second, she’s seriously considering leaving it be, pretending that she’d been taking a nap, exhausted from unpacking, but Dusty is barking up a storm, and she knows the shadowy figures on the porch would’ve been able to see her through the screen…

“Dammit,” she mutters, wiping her eyes again and taking a deep breath. “Dammit, dammit—just a minute! Dusty, be _quiet!”_

And she grabs her dog’s collar, then pushes open the screen door, and the women turn to look at her, and relief crashes into her like the ground after being thrown fifty feet by a rogue Kryptonian…

Because standing out on her freshly painted porch are Isabel Maru and Lena Luthor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I can neither confirm nor deny that I wrote 90k words just so that I could write that last sentence, but… it’s been a long time since I wrote JFA-verse Lena and an even longer time since I wrote Isabel, and I AM SO READY ARE YOU READY
> 
> 2\. Moving is terrible, second only to cleaning and fuck Clark for making his mom come back to earth and like, not even helping her unpack. ~~What a dick.~~
> 
> 3\. I cannot wait for this next chapter because Lena and Isabel have THE BEST DYNAMIC EVER.
> 
> 4\. Thanks for reading!!


	35. Two Aliens and a Metahuman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Strangers from distant lands, friends of old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is loooooong.

“Isabel… what a surprise—what are you doing here?”

“Visiting,” the chemist replies shortly, then she’s pushed her way past her into the house, her arms laden with reusable bags stuffed with bulky-looking items. Lena gives Martha an apologetic smile and kisses both her cheeks.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Kent.” Her voice is measured, commanding, but soft. Martha stares, realizing she’s never heard her speak before. Oh, she’s seen her picture, everyone knows the story of the Luthors, the father’s disappearance, the son’s arrest, the mother’s arrest… there had always been a part of her that had felt sorry for Lena Luthor, despite everything, and she’d been glad when Kara had settled in National City and taken the heiress under her wing- or cape- so to speak. 

“Ah- I’m sorry, the house isn’t unpacked at all, it’s still—”

“Not to worry,” Isabel’s voice comes from around the hall. “That’s why we’re here.”

* * *

The women work fast. 

_We probably spend more time packing and unpacking labs than we do actually running experiments…_

Martha is told to sit on a chair and “give directions” while the two scientists parade her belongings past her. Dusty stands guard at her feet, barking at everything that goes by, and when Isabel sets a cold bottle of pop at her elbow with a murmured, _Your Majesty_ and a sly smile, unpacking day suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. The women ignore her when she tells them they don’t have to vacuum, and they outvote her when she tries to insist on cooking dinner for them, and the next thing she knows, her house is clean and set up: furniture arranged, dust bunnies and cobwebs sucked up, windows sparkling, beds made, dishes put away…

“Pizza’s here!”

...and a billionaire is waltzing into her kitchen, presumably having just tipped the delivery boy with a handful of Benjamins. Isabel calls some sort of acknowledgement up from where she’s in the front yard, beating the dust out of the entryway rug, and Martha yells for her to _leave it be and come eat, Isabel, you’ve done more than enough..._

Both chemists wash their hands, and Martha smiles as their light voices and laughter carry into the kitchen from the parlor bathroom. Everything looks so much better, so much more like a _home_ with the curtains up, the windows clean, the spice rack on the counter, the flower-patterned hand towels hanging over the oven handles…

“...can’t remember the last time I’ve had pizza.”

“Really? If Kara doesn’t get pizza at least once a week, she spontaneously _combusts.”_

“I’m afraid I just have iced tea, and, um, beer,” Martha says apologetically as they file in, setting both the six-pack and jug onto the table along with the pizza box. 

Lena and Isabel both turn to look at her, and all at once, she’s embarrassed, because Lena Luthor is one of the richest people in America, and Isabel is—well, Isabel Maru, and if her hidden Metropolis mansion is any indication, the numbers in her bank account are not so far behind the Luthor family’s, and Martha knows wealth now, she knows wealth and how it looks and how it feels and how it tastes—and this isn’t it. This is pizza from a joint whose heyday was 40 years ago, and it’s nothing like Italy, or even Metropolis or National City—

“It all looks wonderful,” Lena says, her voice reassuring, as if she hasn’t hosted and attended galas and rooftop parties and thousands-of-dollars-a-plate fundraisers. But Martha feels herself relaxing fractionally as they all sit and unpack the pizza and breadsticks.

“Long live the Queen.”

Martha startles. Isabel has poured herself a glass of tea, and Lena is raising one of the bottles of beer, and they’re both smiling what look like genuine smiles at her.

“I—um, thank you,” Martha mutters, still not quite sure if they’re making fun of her or not, but they dig into the food, and Martha takes a slice for herself, wondering for a split second why she felt like she needed to ask for permission.

“Diana sends her apologies, she wanted to be here when you arrived,” Isabel is saying, unfolding her napkin and picking up a slice. Martha stares glumly at the pizza in her hands then takes a reluctant bite. It’s better than she’d feared, a classic, no nonsense pie with thin crust, much better than the cardboard they would’ve gotten at the chain by the gas station. She swallows, feeling a tiny bit better. And they’d even thrown in free rolls and little packs of chilled butter, as if to give them a real Italian experience.

“They got called again almost immediately after coming back from the Underworld—”

“No, they _did_ get called immediately. Diana just took a detour, because apparently _no one_ can call her if she doesn’t want to be called,” Lena says with a grin, taking a swig of beer. Isabel makes a face, but her lip is curled into a smirk.

“What is it they’re all up to, up in…?” Martha asks through a mouthful of dough and sauce, not quite following the easy banter between the two, and still feeling sloppy, off-kilter.

_Honestly, Martha, one day back, and you’ve already lost all manners and decorum…_

But Isabel just gives a sardonic sort of smile and sips primly at her iced tea before she replies,

“They’re trying to set up Argo City, but either something exploded or it was attacked, and _apparently_ everyone needed to go look at it.”

“Argo City is where they’re relocating Superman,” Lena says, seeing Martha’s blank expression, and her heart lurches at that name, at the reminder. But now that he’s floating across her mind once more, she _does_ remember something in the agreement they made at that table at the bottom of the senate floor, something about Clark not being allowed to come back to Earth as Clark anymore… she’d been too worried about the apple of deceit in her pocket to truly pay attention, but it had made sense to her at the time, of course it did, they’d had a funeral for him, he was buried, and there was no way he could reappear as Clark without revealing that he was also Superman.

But he had wanted to go back to his job at the newspaper, wanted to get married, start a family. And Hippolyta had refused, because it would have put his mother at too much risk. And she knew her wife: she knew that Martha was old, and if she had to live out her days on Earth, she would spend them coming and going as she pleased, not in a cage somewhere, or a secure stronghold with a dozen bodyguards.

Lena is saying something about how the last time she was in Kansas, she’d been giving a lecture at Kansas State, and Martha takes another bite of pizza, and then another. Maybe she should be upset: Upset that her son was refusing to let her see her wife, and upset her wife was refusing to let her see her son. But there’s a part of her that already feels her capacity for “upset” has reached its limit, that all she can do is sit here and pretend to enjoy life, and maybe if she pretends long enough, she’ll actually trick herself into believing it—

Another slice of pizza appears on her plate, and Martha’s eyes fly up to see Isabel Maru’s sharp, solemn face peering into her own. 

“Let us know when you want us to leave, and we’ll go,” she says quietly, but the tone of her voice is surprisingly gentle, and Martha feels a lump rising in her throat.

“I… I don’t want you to leave.”

The words ring in the quiet kitchen. Even the refrigerator has stopped humming, as if to ensure that the listening universe won’t miss a beat of her misery. Martha sighs and absently waves the empty crust in her hand. It feels so strange, going from a land of comfort and light to sitting at her Smallville kitchen table with these two… Lena and her darkness and her striking beauty, and her dark hair and dark eyes and dark smile…

_God, if Satan were a woman, we’d all be sinners._

Martha shakes her head. And _Isabel,_ who Hippolyta had always spoken of with a roll of her eyes, a sigh of exasperation; that severe woman who had been waiting, foot tapping impatiently, in the doorway of her Metropolis home when Diana swept her and Lois away from The Daily Planet’s main offices, all those thousands of years ago; the scientist who had not stopped running to and fro in the Batcave for a _moment_ after her wife’s death, working like a madwoman until she was returned once more…

“I appreciate it. Really, I do,” she says awkwardly. “It’s just going to take some time.”

Lena reaches out and lays a hand on her arm, and Martha wonders how anyone ever could’ve judged this sweet girl only on the basis of her last name.

“But I appreciate that you’re here. Truly. And please, eat. Eat all this food, I know it’s not what you’re used to, but it’s the least I can do.”

The women don’t return her weak smile, but they seem to understand her desire to change the subject, and in another moment, they’re talking about some pizza place in Paris, and how they once delivered a truck-load of so many pizzas to Diana’s office at the Louvre, volunteers had to start handing out free pizzas slices to tourists. And then they tell her about a time when Kara showed up at one of Lena’s fundraisers and ate all of the potstickers, and Martha finds herself telling them about how she and Hippolyta visited New Gotham on their honeymoon, and they had eaten at a filthy little pizza parlor that was actually a front for a gang of thieves that Martha Wayne ran with a beautiful woman named Celia…

She doesn’t tell the story well, but both Isabel and Lena seem delighted at the fact that Bruce Wayne’s mother is spending her afterlife wreaking havoc and crime, and Martha finds herself laughing along... and sometimes, she doesn’t even have to pretend.

* * *

For being two rich science snobs, Lena and Isabel are surprisingly well-mannered.

They insist on washing up the dishes and taking out the trash, then they accept Martha’s invitation to sit out on the porch to talk, the two women seemingly allowing themselves a rare moment of relaxation. Martha asks how they met, and she gets an earful about Paris and a research program full of men with sticks up their asses. They ask how she and Hippolyta met, and Martha tells them a story about being whisked away to the Batcave to watch her resurrected son battle some alien, and ending up on the back porch watching the sunrise with the Amazon Queen. Isabel talks about her lab at the university, her research team, her over-full undergraduate classes. Lena talks about how she’s looking into starting a boarding school, a place where young aliens can learn both the basic school curriculum and how to hone and control their powers, all in an environment without judgement. Martha talks about her garden and the flower shop she wants to open when she gets back, and it doesn’t hurt.

By the time the clock inside strikes 10, Lena is on the last bottle of Clark’s favorite beer.

Isabel rolls her eyes and says something about, _We’re working on her endurance and tolerance,_ and refuses to touch a single drop.

 _“I_ don’t drink.”

Lena stares, then turns to give Martha a sideways smile, shaking her head.

“Don’t believe her, I see her drinking all the time.”

“Not _beer.”_

And Lena laughs. It’s a nice sound, deep and silvery, like an Amazon...

“Really, Isabel? The war against Germany was _a hundred years ago._ When are you going to let it go?”

Martha gives a confused laugh, but it is interrupted with a wide yawn, and she waves a hand at her face, trying to hide her tiredness. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate them, but she really _didn’t_ sleep very much last night, and maybe she just sat around in a chair all day like a real Queen, but she’d forgotten how tired her body used to get in the living world, how her bones would ache, how her soft muscles would hang off of her frame like lead balloons, as if her mortal flesh couldn’t resist gravity’s seductive pull into the Earth... 

And the next thing she knows, the two women are urging her to rest, and she’s saying something about making themselves at home and the couch being a sleeper, then she’s crawling under the covers, smiling sleepily to herself as the women’s quiet voices carry up the stairs to her room.

* * *

She wakes to the smell of bacon.

Cooking smells do not often permeate the Queen’s sleeping chambers, as the palace kitchen is several levels lower, and meals are often eaten in the courtyard instead of the bedroom. Sometimes Hippolyta will bring her breakfast in bed, and then their rooms will smell like syrupy pancakes and fresh fruit and hot tea, but never roasted meat, which is only consumed during a hunting festival or special occasions…

It’s the bacon smell, even more than the scratchy sheets and lumpy mattress and patter of rain against the windows that reminds Martha of where she is, of what they did…

A low rumble of thunder echos across the sky. Apparently, the Queen’s grief reaches even the land of the living.

Martha groans and lies back down.

She feels even more tired than she had when she fell asleep.

But despite trying to roll back over and catch a few more winks, the strain of hosting, of having hungry guests is eating away at her mind, and she finally drags herself out of bed, pulls on her New Themyscrian nightgown, sighing in relief as its soft folds slide over her skin, and shuffles her way downstairs.

And Clark Kent is standing at the stove, bacon and eggs sizzling in the frying pan.

_“Clark.”_

She wants to stay angry at him, but he turns to her, and its him, it’s Clark, it’s her _son,_ and he opens his arms, and she throws herself into them, knowing little old her won’t hurt him in the slightest, and he’s grinning, and he grew up to be such a handsome boy, really, such a polite, handsome little boy…

“I am _very_ angry at you,” she says as he puts her down, even as she’s smiling and blinking away tears.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sure you do.”

But she takes the plate he offers her, and fills it with food. 

“So much _grease,”_ she gripes without thinking, as if she didn’t take her wife to a fried chicken dinner on their last night together, as if the last thing she ate wasn’t _pizza._ But she’s accustomed to her breakfast dripping with honey more often than with oil, and her stomach curdles just a little at the sight of the greasy bacon, the fried hash browns.

Clark joins her at the small table in the kitchen, the table where, just last night, Isabel and Lena had made her laugh and forget her grief for a few hours.

“So you got your planet figured out?”

“I don’t think I’ll be spending that much time there… the League is thinking about building a place, a watchtower of sorts where we can meet and keep an eye on things and be ourselves...” And then he begins to talk, telling her about how the man from Mars and the Atlanteans have offered to help Bruce Wayne with the building of some sort of floating satellite where all the metahumans can exist when they’re not off saving the world, and Martha is listening, she’s really listening, but she’s beginning to feel more and more empty, with the more food she puts into her mouth, the more time drags on—and Clark is sitting here talking like he’s getting paid by the word, and—

“Why did you do it?”

Clark stops mid-sentence, his back to her as he gets his third helping of breakfast from the platters on the counter.

“Do what?”

“Why did you fight so hard for me to come back here? Even though I _told_ you I didn’t want to come.” 

“Because you belong here, Ma.”

“Do I, now?”

Clark puts down his plate. Then he comes back to the table without it, and his gaze is serious, sincere as he sits down across from her and takes her hands.

“Okay. Talk to me.”

Martha glares at her uneaten food, the runny egg yoke, the burnt scraps of bacon.

“Argo City,” she finally says, her voice deceptively casual. “Last outpost of Krypton, isn’t it? _Don’t answer,_ just nod or shake your head,” she adds sharply when Clark opens his mouth, apparently relieved at the topic change. 

His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps, and then he nods.

“I don’t see anybody making rules for you to be tied up there,” Martha says, pulling her hands away so she can cross her arms. “I don’t see anybody banning you from Earth, making you stay up there with the rest of your people. Why not? They’re your people, you _belong_ with them.”

She gives a short nod to indicate that her son can speak, but he looks uncomfortable.

“It’s completely different. I didn’t even know about Krypton until a few years ago, I—I grew up here, Earth is my home. And you’re wrong, the Queen _did_ ban me from living here on Earth, she—”

“She banned you from being here as _Clark._ You can live here as long as often as you like as _Superman._ I mean, if only to _God_ I had a silly outfit that let me come and go as I pleased, maybe then people would take me seriously when I say _what I do and don’t want!”_

Clark stares as she pushes herself away from the table and lets her plate and fork fall into the sink with a loud clatter. She doesn’t turn back to look at him.

“...Ma.”

His voice is so soft and confused, and Martha takes a deep breath.

“I don’t belong here, honey.” And there are tears in her eyes as she glances back at him, and she quickly turns away once more, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “And I don’t think I will ever understand why you felt it was your place to tell me what I can and cannot do with the rest of my life.”

“The Queen _kidnapped_ you, it’s my place to protect—”

“I _told_ her to. Why don’t you understand that?” She looks back at him, Clark, in his Krypton clothes, and his slicked back hair, the figure that inspired millions, whose murder sent the world into grieving, and whose life and death shook the core of her very existence, of everything she ever believed in.

“I told her to,” she repeats. “I asked her to take me. I _love_ her.”

Clark looks away, but his strong hand is shaking as he reaches out to grip his mug of coffee. And they remain in silence for a long moment, the birds singing outside, the tree branches brushing against one another.

_Clark…_

“What... do you _see_ in her?”

Martha feels a hot blush creeping up her neck, but she doesn’t know if it’s from embarrassment or indignance, and she turns busily away to refill her own cup of coffee.

“What do _you_ see in her?” she challenges instead, hoping that the steam rising from her cup will disguise the pink in her cheeks.

“She’s a warrior, a killer. And she answers to no one,” he replies, peering at her as if she’s unstable, as if he’s not quite sure what he’s looking at. “You saw her at the Batcave, when she first came in—she has no regard for anyone, anything, she’s a creature of destruction, and when they told me that _she_ was the one who had taken you, I was afraid. For your safety. And… dignity.”

Martha sips at her coffee, saying nothing, and Clark tries again,

“She’s a warrior. She trains to _kill.”_

“So did your father.”

Clark recoils, eyes flashing defensively.

“Dad was a _farmer,”_ he says, his voice forceful, and Martha shrugs.

“He was a soldier when I married him. A veteran, just back from Vietnam—and _by the way,_ he never gave me so much fuss when we talked about this,” Martha huffs, picking up her mug and making her way to the couch in the parlor. Clark’s cape rustles as he rises as well and follows. “He was very decent and accepting about the whole thing. I wish you’d work out that chip in your shoulder and do the same.”

“Dad was a good man,” Clark says firmly, sitting down on the couch beside her, and turning to face her. “It’s different, he never would have—”

“So when a man kills it means he’s good, but when a woman does it—”

“I didn’t _say_ that,” Clark says through his teeth.

“You could learn... _so_ much from her,” Martha says, desperation creeping into her voice at last, the strain of tears threatening her eyes, her voice once more. “The world of man, all of you, all of _us_ could learn so much from the Amazons. They’re not just warriors, they’re _leaders._ They know how to create a fair society, one where no one goes hungry, and power is kept in check, and everyone—men, women, children—have a fair say, a fair shot at chasing their own destiny. They’re scientists, inventors, artists, mathematicians… they could do so much if you only _listened—_ why, even Diana, she could lead this world, lead this little group of yours. Why isn’t she?”

“She _is,_ we respect her, listen to her, treat her like an equal—”

“No, you treat her like a _mother,”_ Martha snaps. “You treat her like someone to run to when things get out of hand, and someone you turn right around and ignore when you think you have it handled, when you want to do it yourself. She should be your _leader.”_

“Look, Ma,” Clark raises his hands, but whether it’s to stop her from going on, or to stop the words from reaching his ears, she doesn’t know. “This doesn’t answer any—this doesn’t explain why you’re angry at me, why you’re telling me it was _wrong_ of me to bring you back from the land of the dead. I did it because it’s what’s best—because _I_ spent time there. A _lot_ of time.” Clark’s voice cracks, and Martha looks at him, at his clouded face. “And I never… I never want you to spend a moment longer in that place than you have to.”

_They will destroy themselves and their world for the ideals that you represent, and they will convince themselves that it is out of love for you._

Martha sighs and sets aside her cup.

“Give me your hands.”

Clark complies, his big hands dwarfing hers, and Martha fights back a sad smile. How many times had she ordered, _Show me your hands?_ making sure her boy had washed them before dinner?

“Do… do you know how you get in winter? When the sun doesn’t come out properly for weeks, and you get groggy? And then when spring comes around, your energy comes back again?”

Clark nods, and Martha bites her lip, then forces herself to go on, even though she can hear her voice beginning to grow unsteady.

“That’s how I feel. When I’m with her, I feel strong. I _am_ strong. I’m myself, the best version of myself—me, happy, at peace, consistently. I feel _alive_ when I’m with her, like I can do anything, fly, even. Face the world, conquer evil. Anything. And when I’m away from her…”

Martha ducks her head, but tears have already spilled down her cheeks, embedding into the soft fabric of her New Themyscrian nightgown, and she’s never felt more weak than at this moment, crying her eyes out with nothing to comfort her but her son’s bewildered expression.

“...when I’m away from her, it’s like I can’t breathe... I can’t think... I can’t even raise my _head._ That’s what it feels like. She was my sun, Clark, my yellow sun who gave my dark world warmth and life and meaning. And you took me away from her.”

She reaches out and cups his cheek, that jawline that could cut glass, and she allows herself the smallest of watery smiles before letting her hand drop once more. And her voice is as cold as the ice in her heart as she raises her head and says,

“...and I don’t know if I can _ever_ forgive you for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact 1: This chapter was 4k words and I probably should have split it in two, but I’m on a time crunch so what do you do. ~~Honestly, most of the next five chapters will probably be stupidly long because I refuse to break the continuity of each act being exactly 20 chapters :P~~
> 
> Fun Fact 2: Martha Wayne's best friend before getting married WAS a woman named Celia who was involved with gangs in Gotham and led a criminal cartel, which... sounds like a MUCH better story than marrying Thomas Wayne and giving birth to Bruce and then dying on a street.
> 
> Fun Fact 3: I had a big fat crush on Lena Luthor and it's _really_ hard to not write about how beautiful she is...?
> 
> Fun Fact 4: Thanks as always for reading!!!!!


	36. The Queen's Guards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence. Not _personal_ violence, just… maybe don’t eat while reading this chapter.

The night of the attack, it’s well into winter, and the farm is a dead, empty field of snow. There’s a political debate on the television, and Martha pours herself a bowl of chips and a mug of hot chocolate before settling down to watch. A few fresh bottles of Clark’s beer are in the back of the fridge, and she still keeps them for him, hoping that someday, he’ll call or appear on her porch, the House of El emblem on his chest, and his red cape snapping in the wind behind his back.

He hasn’t returned since the morning she gave him a tongue-lashing worthy of his crimes. She didn’t _tell_ him not to come back, per se, but she had told him to think about what he did, to think about how forcing one’s morals onto others can be an even worse injustice than forcing one’s depravity… and she hasn’t heard from him since. But she assumes he’s busy getting himself settled amongst the last remainders of his people, busy setting up his floating lighthouse in space, busy doing the things Superman does when he’s not saving the world.

She gets the Daily Planet every morning, although it’s rare to see Lois’ work throughout the week. The last big spread she’d written was on the Steppenwolf/Justice League fiasco, and now she’s busy trying to get to the bottom of something… else. She’s even come around to interview Martha a few times, although she’s not sure if these visits weren’t just excuses to see someone, _talk_ to someone who understands.

But it’s hard. It’s hard to sympathize with someone else’s pain when she’s so immersed in her own. She went to TJ Maxx one day looking for some winter boots to replace the tennis shoes she’s been wearing, and she hadn’t found any, but she had found a hyacinth-scented candle on the cluttered shelf with all the other candles. And every morning, she lights it like some pious Catholic priest, or some ancient warrior sending up the smoke of a burnt offering. It fills her entire parlor with the sweet, artificial scent of her gardens, the Queen’s rooms… and it’s nice.

But her emptiness is too deep to be filled with nostalgia. She misses Hippolyta, from the moment she opens her eyes in the morning. She misses her when she treks down her driveway to get the paper, and the sun is shining softly over the sparkling fields. She misses her when she sits down to eat breakfast. She misses her when she gets dressed for the day, she misses her when she gets into her truck, and she misses her a thousand times after that. Everything reminds her of what she used to have, _who_ she used to have. And she thought it would be easier, like life without Jonathan had eventually gotten easier, like life without Clark had eventually turned to a dull, empty throb. 

But it doesn’t. It still hurts. And every day, it hurts more.

The candidates have taken the stage, looking over their notes one last time, and the news anchors are talking about polls. Dusty is snoring on the carpet, his nose twitching, occasionally giving a pathetic whine. But he’d already had a very nice dinner, she wasn’t about to give him any snacks. Martha spreads a crocheted blanket across her lap and studies the candidates’ faces as they flash on the screen beside their numbers. It’s strange, how the idea of power is still so alluring to so many. Judging by the number of times Olivia Marsdin has been attacked, Martha can’t understand why _anyone_ would want to be President…

She wonders how many times Hippolyta’s been attacked.

It must be too many to count, enough that the Amazons shifted their stance from that of peacemakers to warriors. She remembers the paintings of the Amazons emerging from the sea, beautiful and soft and naked and defenseless. At what point did Hippolyta don armor for the first time, hold a blade in her hand, drive it through a living body?

_“Senator, this first question is for you: Recent alien attacks have led to widespread panic across the nation and world. In 2013, you actually voted against a bill that would…”_

The old house creaks, and Martha sighs. It seems almost bizarre, aliens flying about one month, a bunch of men and women in business suits lined up on a stage having a debate the next. It’s strange how grasping at the last few threads of normalcy can be so comforting—

The door flies open, flies _in,_ shattered glass spewing in every direction, and Martha lets out a shriek, flinging her arms up over her head.

_What in the HELL—_

The lights and TV flicker, and Dusty leaps up, barking his head off, and two masked figures are marching across the parlor toward her, and she barely has time to jump to her feet before they seize her arms and drag her across the floor without so much of a, _this way, ma’am_ , and she’s screaming, dragging her heels, and there’s applause splattered across the television as someone gets off a good zinger, and wet teeth nip at her ankles— _Dusty, you stupid dog bite THEM, not me—_ and then there’s a gunshot and a strangled howl of pain as something else splatters across the floor…

_This can’t be happening, this is a dream, this can’t..._

The threshold bounces across her visual field, replaced just as quickly with the darkness of the porch roof, the night sky. She feels the snap of the cold wind whistling over the fields, smells her kidnappers’ expensive cologne mixed with the stink of cheap cigarettes, and she’s swearing, sobbing as gloved fingers bruise her arms and wooden steps bruise her legs, they’re going to tear her in half, tear her right in half, right here on the walkway to her own damn house—

_Please… please, help… Clark..._

But Clark is light years away in Argo City, and by the time he might get here, they will have already dragged her away without a trace, dragged her down to the drains and eaten her there, limb by limb, a violent, _gory_ death, a death worthy of its Queen...

“Please, let me go, please, _please,_ you’re hurting me…”

She sees high beams piercing the dark, _Oh, God, the deadlights,_ hears an engine running, a car door opening, and her shoulders are burning, practically pulled from their sockets, with no regard whatsoever to her skin and bones and living flesh and sensitive nerves, and then something strikes her head, and it _hurts,_ it hurts even worse than when the Kryptonians threw her across the lawn, worse than when Luthor’s cronies tossed her into an unmarked van, worse than when Hippolyta— _Hippolyta..._

_Oh, Goddess, Goddess, help me, they’re killing me—_

There’s a sharp cry of fear, and for a moment, Martha thinks it’s her own, and then a roar of rage is echoing across the sky, and the hand gripping her arm loosens, and Martha falls down into the dirt as Aethon streaks across the field, eyes flashing red, lips pulled back to reveal row upon row of sharp, gleaming teeth, and his mouth keeps opening wider and wider, until it seems like he’s about to swallow the world whole, and the man standing over Martha’s body lets out a scream of terror and just barely lets fly a wild gunshot before those teeth clamp around his neck… and then they bite down with a dull crunch and pull his head from his shoulders...

The second man fumbles with a weapon, and there’s a round of explosive snaps, but the bullets speed right through Nyctaeus’ heaving flanks, and then she’s upon him, kicking him 20 feet into the air, and she is there to trample his lifeless body when it plummets once more to the ground, blood drenching her legs from the knees down as she stomps him into the earth.

The sounds they’re making are horrible: Angry, sadistic brays of rage and glee, as if they can see the dead spirits being dragged up into the Goddess of Death’s throne room, as if they can see as she surges forward in all of her wrath and majesty to tear their wispy souls to shreds for _daring_ to lay a hand on her beloved...

_“Mrs. Kent!”_

There’s the swooping sound of wind, of incoming heroes, but Nyctaeus roars like a demon lion, and there’s a sharp cry of surprise, a handful of curses… Martha tries to raise her head from where she is lying facedown in the dirt, but she’s too tired, too _sore_ to move. It’s like the air has been forced from her lungs, the marrow from her bones, and all she can do is lie still and hope that death will come quickly…

_Martha… little one..._

She can smell the blood.

She can hear the horses screaming, the horses let loose…

_Hippolyta..._

_“Ησυχάζω, Nyctaeus, ησυχάζω!”_

But it’s not Hippolyta who arrives to shout Ancient Greek at her frantic, bloodthirsty bodyguards, it’s Diana… _Wonder Woman..._

“Mrs. Kent… Mrs. Kent, can you hear me?”

“Jason, sweep the car, figure out who they are.”

“No broken bones, thank Rao, what did they…?

“Oh, _God.”_

Someone vomits. You'd think they'd be used to headless corpses by now. Don't they do this all the time?

“Easy now, we’re going to get you up. We’re going to get you up and back inside… get you cleaned up...”

“‘m alright,” Martha mumbles, flinching as two arms slide beneath her body. She's so lightheaded. “I’m…fine.”

“Clark is on his way. You’re safe now.”

“K—Kara…” 

“I’m here, Mrs. Kent.”

“The dog… hide the dog before…”

_Before Clark gets here and sees it._

“Inside,” Diana’s voice says softly, and there’s a rush of wind as Supergirl flies forward. Martha doesn’t even see as she carries Dusty’s bloodied body out of the house, presumably to bury him somewhere in the yard. The parlor is spotless by the time Diana gently sets her down onto the couch.

It must be nice, superspeed.

Bruce is waiting in his silly batsuit with a glass of water and some pills, and Diana holds the glass up to her lips like she’s an old, bedridden woman. And then the men are gone, and she’s fallen back into a fatigued haze as Diana carefully cleans her wounds and packs ice around her bruised skin.

She doesn’t ask who her attackers were. She doesn’t care.

All she cares about is the feeling of Diana’s fingers against her skin, and the way the dark-haired goddess’ face keeps shifting as her mind muddles with exhaustion and morphine, or whatever it was Bruce Wayne gave her…

_Oh, Hippolyta… so close, my darling. We were so close._

Maybe if she prays hard enough, it’ll work after all, and her body will give up its soul, and Hippolyta will appear and pull her into her arms and welcome her home, this time for good…

* * *

“—needs to be moved to the Watchtower. This can’t happen again.”

“She chooses where she lives, and we make it safe for her. That was the agreement. Don’t try to twist my words, Kal-El, I was there in the Senate when you made your deal with the Queen.”

“It’s not _feasible_ anymore.”

Martha groans as the throbbing in her limbs all comes back in a rush, and the voices come to an abrupt halt. 

“It’s all right Mrs. Kent, take it easy.” Lois’ soft voice is accompanied by the feeling of a gentle hand behind her head and the smell of hot soup—like she hadn’t just eaten a full dinner a few hours earlier…

She opens her eyes and the first thing she sees is Clark and Diana standing slightly off to the side, halfway into the kitchen, both in their uniforms. Isabel is scowling at them as she places a fresh ice pack into Lois’ outstretched hand.

_“Ma.”_

_The whole tights and capes crew._

Martha grimaces, and all at once, Clark is looming over her, face tight with worry.

“You took your time,” she grumbles, going in to rub her forehead with the back of her hand, only to find that both are packed with ice.

“They were supposed to be keeping an eye on you.”

“Send your friends home, it’s a school night,” Martha yawns, extracting her hand from beneath what she now sees is a bag of frozen peas, and absently rubbing her eyes. “Who won the debate?”

“Ma, you were just _attacked,”_ Clark says incredulously, reaching out as if to stop her from sitting up. “You’re not going any—”

“Clark.”

He wavers for a moment, then rises to his feet and falls back to stand beside Lois, and Martha tries not to groan too loudly as she sits up and swings her legs over the side of the couch. 

“Diana, sweetie, give an old woman a hand.”

The Amazon’s brow furrows, but she takes a long, graceful step forward and Martha seizes her offered elbow. And no one protests as Martha leads them both out onto the porch. The front and screen doors slam shut behind them, and she breathes out a sigh of relief.

Aethon and Nyctaeus are standing guard at the bottom of the steps, just like she thought they would be, and they nicker loudly when she appears, as if she’s a Queen stepping out onto her balcony to make a speech before all her subjects.

Diana helps her as she gingerly makes her way down the steps, and then Martha’s being attacked with wet horse tongues and soft horse noses, and she wraps her arms around their necks and murmurs sweet nothings into their little ears.

“Your mother is too good for me, Diana,” Martha says at last, smoothing her hand over Nyctaeus’ mane and looking over the horse’s broad neck at the tall Amazon.

“This should never have happened, Mrs. Kent, I wish—”

“Don’t do that, it wasn’t your fault.”

She means to go on, but Aethon’s tongue is tickling her ear, and she pushes him away.

“Stop digging around in there, that’s disgusting,” she scolds. “And _you_ shush,” she adds as Nyctaeus brays in amusement. The horses nudge her with their noses a few more times to make sure she’s still alive, and then they trot off, shoving each other away from the best looking snow.

“We’re going to have to be a family now, aren’t we?” Martha says almost more to herself than to the goddess standing behind her. “You and me and everyone inside. We’ll have to work it out.”

“He cares about you,” Diana says quietly. “But he is used to a different type of service, immediate, life-saving, like soldiers fighting the war and then going home… but it is the aftermath that we are in, and the aftermath is not something that they are often confronted with.”

Martha glances over at her, at the daughter of a people who fought for their freedom and built a life for themselves afterward, a life full of joy and healing and artistic wonders and technological advancement. Her people _—their_ people—were experts in recovery. In how to pick up a life after trauma, how to thrive.

“I just… I feel like there’s a disconnect. He thinks I should be happy, and I can’t seem to get him to understand why I’m not. And I don’t feel like I owe it to him to try to pretend that I am. Is—does that make me a terrible person?”

Diana gives a small smile, but she looks away, and all of a sudden Martha is reminded of how _old_ this woman is, how much she has seen in her thousands of years of life.

“It is another type of battle, is it not? The Amazons were created to influence Man’s World in peace and love. And it is no easy task, even today.”

Diana steps forward, her face half lit by the yellow light hanging over the porch. And her touch is warm and familiar as she reaches up and cups Martha’s cheeks.

“But we must always take the higher road, my Queen. They may not listen today, or tomorrow, or next year, or the next century. But still, we speak, and we act, and we _try,_ in hopes that one day, this world will be all that it can be.”

_You’re too optimistic, Diana,_ Martha wants to say, but she follows Diana’s gaze to where she is watching Isabel’s silhouette in the window. The chemist is gathering up the remaining ice packs and shaking her head at whatever it is Clark and Lois are discussing, and then she disappears further into the house, and Diana’s lip curls slightly.

“How long did it take?” Martha’s voice sounds abrupt, as if she’s intruding on a moment, but Diana looks back at her, and her eyes are soft.

“...how long did what take?”

_“Her,”_ Martha says, nodding toward the window, and Diana’s face transforms into a true smile.

“Six years.”

_“God,”_ Martha mutters, but she doesn’t wait for an explanation. And before she knows it, the stairs are beneath her slippers, and the door handle is in her palm. And then she’s stepping into her own house, and they’re all standing huddled in the kitchen, but the only one she sees is him, Clark, her son, the Superman, the one who did this to her, who tore her away from the arms of her beloved, who forced her to live in this place where random men can pull up and kick down her doors and drag her down her own driveway…

“Go home. It’s late.” Her voice is curt, and the women peel off immediately, knowing their presence is unwelcome. She can hear Diana’s voice behind her, offering Lois a ride back to Metropolis. Clark glances at her, but then gives a quiet sigh and seems to steel himself, apparently about to leave without a word. But Martha reaches out suddenly, her hand grasping at his arm, stopping him from leaving just yet.

“Stop by for dinner tomorrow. I—I’ve brought down a chicken from the freezer to roast, and I don’t want leftovers for the rest of the week.”

He stares at her for a moment, as if he can’t believe his ears, then he takes a tentative step forward and rests a hand on her shoulder.

“...are you sure you’re all right?”

She gives a short nod and waves off a final offer from Diana to stay overnight just in case, and then they’re gone: Two of them lifting off in the invisible plane, the rest of them roaring into the dark horizon in Bruce Wayne’s monster spaceship.

Martha stands for a long moment in her yellow kitchen, with its faded walls and flickering lights. Then she fumbles for the light switch, plunging the room into darkness, and makes her way up the creaky stairs.

Maybe she’ll never forgive him, and maybe he’ll never come to love Hippolyta as she does. But tomorrow she’ll tell him about New Themyscira. About the beach. About her garden. About the people she met, the places she’d seen, the stories she’d heard. She’ll tell him about Hippolyta, about her pride for her people and their traditions and accomplishments, her dedication to peace and justice for all, her love of all things beautiful and right. Maybe tomorrow he’ll let her get two words in, maybe next week he’ll listen to five.

And maybe one day… he’ll understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here are too many fun facts:
> 
> Fun Fact I: _It_ is one of my favorite books in the world, and I will never watch the movies or miniseries as long as I live, but I love that fucking book. ~~And I’ll also take some of whatever Stephen King was on when he wrote it, the thing is LONG AS FUCK~~
> 
> Fun Fact II: Speaking of monsters, I headcanon that Aethon and Nyctaeus were babies, and Hippolyta either created them and/or trained them from birth to be the guards and main form of transportation for her wife, and their first real job was to go to Kansas to get her (and they were very excited and on their bestest behavior). They’re both silly and stubborn and fiercely protective of their charge, and I love them.
> 
> Fun Fact III: I know a lot of you were super (ha) mad at Clark, and… that is 100% absolutely valid. But I also think he needs work in some areas, and Martha’s not going to stand by and wait for it to happen, she’s going to ~~make~~ help him get there. I know it’s not a woman’s job to make men better, but she is his mother, and if she needs to (lovingly) beat the crap out of him for being a jerk, then she sure as hell is going to.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Hippolyta finally comes back in _a_ form next chapter (not her Karathan form, thank god) because I miss her.
> 
> Fun Fact V: RIP Dusty (he’s running amok in Martha’s Underworld garden as we speak!)


	37. The Day Before You Came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **March 2016:** Martha has to wrestle with living in a world that Hippolyta doesn't rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might feel like… going off the deep end a little? But I promise it’s going in a very specific direction, and I really do have to set it up, so I hope you’ll be patient enough to wade through it with me as we get there. :)

It’s raining, and the paths winding through her garden are interspersed with puddles.

Martha wanders through the sheets of rain without getting a single drop on her, and that’s when she knows she’s dreaming.

That, and the figure sitting on the bench further up the path.

She runs to her, water splashing up everywhere, afraid that the dream will change, afraid that the face will be different when she reaches her—and then she’s throwing her arms around that back, burying her face in that hair, that fur, all of it soaked by the weeping sky. But Hippolyta doesn’t move, doesn’t say a thing, and Martha feels her heart sinking as she recognizes the slight tremble in her wife’s shoulders.

“Darling...” Martha murmurs, shifting around to crawl into her lap. There’s a handful of hyacinths clutched in the Queen’s hand, and her other hand is pressed up over her own mouth, her eyes shut tight, and Martha knows that it’s not just rainwater rolling down her lover’s cheeks…

“Lyta, it’s me. I’m here, _look_ at me,” Martha whines, taking her by the shoulders, giving her a shake. But she cannot see her, cannot feel her, and Martha lets out a groan of frustration, trying to will away the awful feeling welling at the pit of her stomach.

_Of all stupid..._

But she only lays her cheek against that armored shoulder, breathing deeply, trying to savor the moment, as horrible as it is. She can almost smell the sweet scent of the flowers, hear the soft patter of rain against earth and leaves, taste the salt of her wife’s tears—

“I’m here,” she whispers again, pressing her lips to her cold neck, to those wet cheeks. “I’m _here.”_

_“Hippolyta… sister.”_

A shadow has come up the path, and Hippolyta raises her head at last. The flowers tumble from her fingers to the ground, and Martha falls with them…

* * *

They’re in a field.

A field soft and mushy with rain.

This time Hippolyta is holding her, kissing her, and Martha snakes her arms around her neck, kissing her lips, her cheeks, her nose, her chin, every inch of her she can get.

_“Little one…”_

“Too much rain,” she mutters in response. Rain turns the dust to mud, and mud—

They’re both naked.

Hippolyta’s arms tighten around her, and then they’re in the shallow, sparkling water of the lake, Hippolyta holding her up as Martha’s legs kick slowly back and forth in the heavy water. Her skin… she’d forgotten how much she loved the feel of Hippolyta’s skin pressing against hers, her cool arms around her shoulders, against her back. Martha’s arms tighten around that elegant neck, hands buried deep in her hair.

“Don’t wake up,” Martha whispers against her lips. “Don’t wake up.”

 _“Martha Kent…”_ And Hippolyta looks at her, and those blue eyes are so familiar, so tender and full of longing, Martha starts to weep right there. _“Every moment with you is a dream.”_

She gives a soft laugh as Martha blushes and ducks her head, and then cool fingertips are brushing her tears away. And Martha clings to her like a child, a child afraid that if she closes her eyes, her mother will disappear…

“It’s too hard,” she breathes, rubbing her cheek against silky hair. Already, it feels like a hundred years, a thousand years since they were lying together in the truck bed, watching the stars come out... “It’s just too _hard,_ Hippolyta.”

 _“Soon, my darling...”_ Hippolyta sighs in her ear, but Martha shakes her head.

“Not soon enough.”

* * *

_Not soon enough._

The news is terrible.

And Martha wants nothing more than to turn it off, to let the false, quiet peace of Smallville blind her to the horrors of the living world. But she can’t.

The _Daily Planet_ is lying in the dirt by the mailbox every morning, and every day, the front page is a spread of death and destruction and war. The radio tells horror story after horror story until she can’t take it anymore and changes it to country music, and the images plastered across the TV make her so sick, her default channel becomes the cooking station, and she spends her evenings watching chef contests and strange pseudo-documentaries on how different foods are made.

She’d gotten used to a world where justice was served, and power was kept in check, no one was at war, and no one went hungry... she'd gotten too comfortable, in the land where her wife ruled over all with a just and firm hand.

Clark calls her now. Sometimes he visits, but Martha’s always on edge when he’s around the house, worried that some nosy neighbors will “pop by” and see Superman fixing the sink or working his way through a platter of her egg salad sandwiches. Smallville seems to have accepted that she settled some insurance claim and received a sizable sum of money, but they still ask too many questions and want too much from her: her presence and participation in the community, at the church, at the farmers market, the weekly bingo nights, the line-dancing on Thursdays.

The first time she went back to church, someone had asked if she would start teaching Sunday School again, and she’d laughed a little harder than she should’ve. But what was she going to do, teach the little children that one day, a beautiful woman invite them forward to her throne and then review their lives with them, step by step, day by day—and then she would proclaim judgement over them and send them to the place best befitting the virtue of their lives?

The superintendent would probably kick her out from the moment “a beautiful woman” slipped from her lips.

“I dreamed of her last night.”

It was the first time Martha has dreamed of her wife since they were so unjustly separated, and it’s thrown her world off balance, sending her spiraling down into a terrible mood. And Clark has the misfortune of calling her while she’s waiting impatiently for her microwave to finish making the most boring and lazy breakfast possible.

Clark, understandably, doesn’t want to know what she dreamed, but she goes on without listening.

“She was crying. Sitting in my garden, and crying. It was horrible.”

Clark breathes, and Martha hates him and hates herself.

 _“God,_ it would’ve been better if we had never met.”

“Ma…”

“It’s too _hard,”_ Martha says angrily, yanking open the door to the microwave and pulling out her sludgy bowl of instant oatmeal. “This is hell, do you understand that? This was supposed to be good, it was supposed to be good for us, for the family, for our _worlds,_ but it’s _not,_ it’s not good, Clark, it’s _hell.”_

“It’s March, it's spring, you’re already three months in—” Clark begins, his voice placating, like a parent trying to coax their child to finish their homework.

“It’s not just _that,”_ Martha snaps rudely. Clark doesn’t reply, and Martha rubs a hand across her eyes.

“It’s this whole _world.”_

* * *

She doesn’t mean to stop, but the changeable letters over the diner sign are shouting something about getting special pies for watching the last debate before the Kansas primary, and Martha’s been craving something sweet, something she doesn’t have to bake herself.

Or maybe it was just meant to be, a little nudge toward her fate.

She parks the truck and makes her way into the diner, shielding her face against the blazing sun that had apparently decided that the third day of spring is fair game for spreading sunburns...

“Martha!”

She jumps and raises her head to frown as Nel impatiently waves her over to a table. The hostess is gripping the the arm of a rather embarrassed young man who looks a little older than Clark. He has long hair and a rugged, bearded look, like some hippie who backpacked across Europe after high school—which Clark _did_ do, and it didn’t make him any worse a person, but...

“This kid is here from some campaign,” she says unhelpfully before waving a menu at Martha’s face. “He’s going to talk before the debate. Sit down—you want the chicken dinner again, or something else?”

“Oh, I ate at home, I’ll just take a slice of whatever that special is today and some de… caf,” Martha says, her voice trailing off, because the woman is already marching away, shouting a greeting at a couple who just came in.

“God, I hope I didn’t offend her.”

“She does seem fun,” the man says, subtly rubbing his arm where the hostess’ vice grip had just been, but he smiles wryly and holds out his hand. “Ed.”

“Ed?” Martha says dubiously, and the man flushes.

“...it’s short for Edwin.”

“Yikes.”

“I know,” he grimaces, then waves his fork at his nearly empty plate of pie. “Listen, you don’t have to sit here if you don’t want to, I don’t want to impose—”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Martha says, slinging her purse over the back of the chair and sitting down. “It’s a small town: it’s nice to see a stranger every once in a while. Just don’t talk _too_ much.”

The young man gives a small smile and glaces out the windows as he picks up his tall glass of pop, shaking it slightly so that the ice rattles against the frosted plastic.

“Nel Potter was telling me that you’ve probably had the most interesting life out of everyone around here.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that—Laura Lang could’ve given me a run for my money,” she says pointedly as the woman returns with a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.

“Don’t speak ill of the dead, Kent,” Nel says tartly, plunking down both in front of her.

“...what is _this?”_ she asks, picking up her fork and cautiously poking at what looks like a slice of banana cream, but also some sort of—

“It’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Banana Cream. It’s the special.”

“Couldn’t you have fit the kitchen sink in here, too?” Martha snorts, but she pats the hostess’ arm to let her know she’s joking. The woman shakes her head and waves a hand at Ed.

“Refill on the diet?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” And then she’s gone, yelling goodbyes to an old man with a walker and his harried-looking daughter.

“So is your family from around here?” Martha asks after tasting the pie and not hating it. She might as well talk to this stranger if she’s going to have to eat her pie in front of him, and this fellow looks like the type who loves the sound of his own voice.

“We’re from Newton. My father’s the editor of the _Wichita Eagle,_ and my mother teaches at the community college in Hutchinson.”

“Sounds like a smart family.”

 _Sounds like a rich family is more like it,_ she thinks, but she knows better than to say it out loud, and the young man continues talking without noticing her inner monologue.

“I work with a couple nonprofits in Wichita, but right _now_ I’m working with Sylvia Nathans’ campaign. She’s running for Congress, the Big First.”

“Never heard of her,” Martha says, putting down her fork and picking up her steaming cup of coffee, reaching across the table for a couple packets of sugar. “But good luck—you’ll _need_ it.”

“Why do you say that?” Ed says much more politely than she would’ve. She’s still in a rotten mood from her fight with Clark this morning, from her dreams...

“Oh, we never elect a new representative unless the old one is retiring,” she says abruptly, remembering that she’s in the middle of a conversation that’s not inside of her head. “It’s an old, tired tradition, besides, everyone knows we _hate_ change around here.”

“Maybe, but it’s not change so much as _awareness._ Like—listen.”

And Martha startles as the young man leans forward, hands gesturing to the center of the table.

“You had significant damage on your house when the aliens attacked in 2013, right? And you _also_ lost your job at Sears, because of the damage to their building, Nel Potter said—”

“Nel Potter talks too much,” Martha grumbles, but the man goes on without stopping.

“But relatively speaking, you were _severely_ impacted by the alien attacks, losing your home, losing your job. And yet, when the Senate hearing happened in Washington with Superman, who was it that had a seat at the table?”

“The… senators?”

 _“Lex Luthor,”_ Ed plows ahead, food and drink forgotten, his hands waving wildly, eyes alight with excitement. “Why was Lex Luthor invited to the Senate hearing? Sure, his property was affected in Metropolis, but they published the numbers, the attacks cost 20 million dollars worth of property damage to Luthor Corp. Do you know what percentage of Luthor Corp’s annual budget that is?”

Martha sips politely at her coffee, but it’s clear the man wants an answer and she rolls her eyes and says,

“Oh, I don’t—ten percent? How about that?” Martha says, a slight edge of annoyance in her voice, but the man doesn’t take the hint.

“Not even _close,”_ Ed says triumphantly. “20 million... is _point_ _zero three percent_ of Luthor Corp’s annual budget. It’s less than _half_ a percent of their spending in 2012. They spend more on the _reception food_ at their quarterly fundraisers. I mean, the Luthors could’ve paid for that damage with the change in their _pockets.”_

“I think they did—”

“The point is, why did _he_ have a seat at this Senate meeting, when someone like _you_ lost far more than he did?” Ed says, waving his hand at the window. “I mean, you lost your job, you lost your home, and you eventually lost your farm, your entire _livelihood_ because of it. You should’ve been right there in the room, and Superman and the Senate should’ve looked you in the eye and explained what they were going to do to repair the damage they did, and how they were going to help you get back on your feet.”

Martha pushes away her kitchen sink pie, the filling suddenly tasting too sweet on her tongue. This diner... the reminders from the morning Clark went to testify before the government, the way _Superman_ just falls from this young man’s mouth like it means nothing—she’d never truly understood the protesters who had lined the fences outside of the Capitol that one, horrible morning, but…

It’s not like she’s not accustomed to loss.

And yes, Clark had been trying to protect Earth against the invaders, and he had succeeded. And the community had come together afterward, picking up the pieces, but it didn’t change the fact that people were still recovering, still dealing with the aftermath, still trying to get back on their feet, and now with the attacks from Steppenwolf and Darkseid...

“I… I don’t think that will ever happen. We don’t hold very much to Washington out here. We’ve learned how to take care of ourselves.”

“You’ve learned how to take care of yourselves against _nature,”_ the young man says, peering at her. “This isn’t nature, Mrs. Kent. It’s willful ignorance.”

“Well, _now_ you just sound like one of those conspiracy people,” Martha says, trying to keep her voice from descending to patronizing. “We don’t need handouts. We get along just fine.”

But conspiracy-theorist Ed will not be deterred. “It’s not a handout. It’s their _job._ You know Senate approved a bill that gave Metropolis tens of millions of dollars to help them repair the city? Did you know they spent _seven million_ of it on a statue of Superman? What could you have done with 7 million right here in this town? You lost 17 people during the alien attack, 3 service members, and 14 citizens, and dozens of injuries. That money could’ve been used to offset funeral costs, clearing out the rubble, repairing the roads, giving out subsidies to people like you who lost property. Wayne Enterprises created a victims fund for their employees and families who were impacted by the attacks, why didn’t Sears?”

 _Because Bruce Wayne has Alfred breathing down his neck about being a decent human being,_ Martha thinks to herself with a small smile, but it is encouraging to hear that the frazzled billionaire has _some_ compassion, at least for the people who work for him.

“The only reason why some communities in this country get rebuilt and some are left to flounder is because we don’t all have equal places at the _table,”_ Ed is still raging. “And that’s what Sylvia is trying to change, it’s not like she’s trying to come in here and change _people—_ she’s here to listen to the people and bringing awareness to the needs of the community. And she and her wife have really focused on organizing in rural areas throughout Kansas, whereas the other candidates have focused on urban issues and the bigger cities...”

Martha’s fork slips from her fingers and clatters down onto the table.

Ed has picked up his glass and is either parched from his speech and completely focused on drinking up his last diluted drops of Diet Coke, or is too polite to comment. But Martha’s heart is pounding, and the sound is so loud in her ears, and she’s frozen, can’t move, can’t breathe—

“What— _what_ did you say?” she says, her voice faint. He gives her a look that is friendly, but also wary, as if she’s about to snatch up her plate and march away, or maybe toss her hot coffee in his lap.

“Well, I said a lot,” he says with a rueful smile. “Which part did—”

“They’re going to _murder_ this woman,” Martha says weakly. “The people with the hate signs, their church is right up the highway.”

“I know,” Ed says, seemingly unfazed. “But that kind of hate is not reflective of our state, or our nation.”

_You'd be surprised, kid._

But Martha only reaches out a shaking hand and randomly grasps at her cup of coffee, trying to keep the hot liquid from sloshing over the edge. It's like her whole body, her whole _world_ is on edge...

Because she’s never been in danger like this before.

Oh, she’s been attacked by aliens and kidnapped and held hostage in a warehouse and dragged out of her house in her pjs, but… but this is different. This is terror without the adrenaline, this is fear where she’s a cognizant, competent party to her own fate, to the steps of her own demise, this is her, possibly betraying herself if she’s not careful.

Hippolyta—her proud, fearless wife, _God,_ she would be ashamed of her—but here, she’s a figure from a _dream._ Yes, they had eaten together at this very diner, but no one was waving a sign in her face, no one was wearing a “I Love My Wife” t-shirt, no one needed to _know._

And it hadn’t occurred to Martha in a million years that anyone ever would.

She pretends to takes a drink for as long she can, then takes a deep breath and sets her coffee back onto the table.

“What… what was her name again?”

* * *

Later that night, Martha climbs into bed and reaches over to where her purse is sitting on the nightstand. Ed had handed her a pamphlet, and she’d stuffed it away almost immediately when it touched her hand, like it was some forbidden literature. But she looks at it now, studying the politician’s no-nonsense face, reading her abbreviated mission statement, the ideals she supports. It seems so long ago that Hippolyta had warned—hinted?—at her mission on Earth, her unfinished business with the land of the living...

_You deserve to watch your grandchildren grow up. You deserve to watch as the world learns to accept aliens like your son, until no one, no mother will ever have to endure what you did… you deserve to see love like ours accepted and cherished by all people, and live to see a time when you can speak without shame…_

And then Martha had slapped her across the face.

But maybe… maybe she had been right.

Maybe she wasn’t supposed to just live passively, wait tables, run the farm, and then retire and tend to her knitting.

_I just want to do something useful with my life._

“Oh, Clark…” Martha sighs, folding the pamphlet up once more and setting it onto the nightstand. 

But Clark can’t help her. Even Diana can’t help her, Amazon warrior princess that she is. This is Kansas, the United States of America, and its voting process, its political climate, its traditions that run as deep and stubborn as Themyscira’s own. This is her home, her people, for as long as she has left with them.

 _If you’re interested, I’d like to talk with you again. I’d like to hear your story, get your perspective—as a professional. A professional talk,_ after he’d done his speech and after the debate on the TV was over. And she’d scoffed, as if she wasn’t 25 years older than him and on her third marriage. But this was Kansas, after all. People talked. _God,_ they talked.

And she was afraid of that.

But maybe… maybe she didn’t have to be. Maybe there _is_ something she can do, some part she could play in making sure that one day, no one ever had to be afraid again: afraid of having an alien son, afraid of loving a woman, afraid of being different.

Maybe she’ll call that stranger. That’s what she’ll do, she’ll call that stranger, and she'll pay him back for talking her ear off all evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: I’ve never seen an episode of Smallville in my life, but if you have and made it to a certain part in the series, then you know where I’m taking Martha with this, and I can't wait. :)
> 
> Fun Fact II: Ed is based off of Diane Lane’s eventual love interest in Under the Tuscan Sun, BUT HE IS NOT A LOVE INTEREST HERE.
> 
> Fun Fact III: The representative mentioned is loosely inspired by a real-life lesbian who ran and WON in Kansas’ 3rd Congressional District in 2016. And all that stuff about Martha’s district is true. Also, Westboro is about 2.5 hours away from Smallville, and… ugh.
> 
> Fun Fact IV: “The Day Before You Came” is my favorite ABBA song, and it’s the last one they recorded, and it’s about a woman who’s reminiscing about how routine and aimless her life had been before “someone” came, and it’s really just a great song!
> 
> Fun Fact V: Believe it or not, Hippolyta actually comes back in the next chapter! It’ll be a long one! (Even longer than this one :P)
> 
> Fun Fact VI: I challenge you to figure out what 20 million is 0.3% of :D ~~It was an unintentional coincidence~~


	38. Election Season Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring/Summer/Winter 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I attempt to speed through 9 months in 3500 words :P

Martha Kent can organize her life in terms of which funerals she had been planning at the time.

Maybe that’s why she fell in love with the Goddess of Death.

Stranger Ed sits across from her at a hipster coffee house in Wichita, two mugs sitting on the round, high-top table between them. He takes notes on one of those new-fangled tablets, and she tells him her story: the story of growing up as the granddaughter of a minister in rural Kansas, of marrying a boy who died from cancer barely a year after they walked down the aisle, and then marrying a man who’d been declared MIA in Vietnam, a man whose family had been farming for four generations…

She doesn’t talk very much about Jonathan. It still seems strange, somehow, grieving a man who she can see again in a handful of months.

_ Now, did he receive any support from the V.A.? Did he apply for the G.I. Bill? _

Ed reminds her of Lois sometimes, the way he seizes onto threads, chases certain answers, asks certain questions. He wants to know exactly how her farm was impacted by the Great Recession of 2008, wants to know what the banks and insurance companies did to help when her home was destroyed by car-throwing Kryptonians in 2013. He wants to know if there was any union talk as Sears was starting to spiral, if there was any effort made by the company to help her after the Smallville store was shut down. He sees injustice everywhere, and he knows exactly what should’ve been done to stop it.

It’s exhausting.

_ Stay angry,  _ he tells her blithely as they’re walking out into the parking lot. The sun is almost directly overhead, and all Martha wants is to find a pool somewhere, or maybe a walk-in freezer.

_ Stay tired, is more like it,  _ she thinks to herself as she drives away. Maybe she made a mistake, maybe this isn’t the way, maybe she should just focus on living. Living, and breathing, and minding her own business. She never was particularly interested in politics, never really cared about the government—at least, until they started looking into regulating her son. Maybe she could talk to Diana, but the goddess seems so… big picture. Laws and legislation, those are details, and Diana is about people's hearts and attitudes. Even Lena seems caught up in her own world of being a corporate billionaire businesswoman and supporting charities in a rich person type of way. And Lois is someone who investigates things, sheds light on things, but doesn’t go out of her way to  _ change  _ things.

There is someone. Someone who seems like she would know about politics, or at least the underbelly of the world, the political currents that ripple across the nation and world, but…

Martha trudges up the stairs to her bedroom and cranks up the AC before picking up the phone, planning to leave some vague message that starts and ends with an apology. But the line clicks after the third ring, and her heart leaps in a blind moment of panic.

“If you’re calling for Diana, I can give you her number,” the voice on the other end says as a greeting, and Martha blinks, then reluctantly allows her face to break into a smile.

“I’m not calling for Diana, I’m calling for you, actually. I—I hope I’m not interrupting, or waking you up—”

“Not at all. I’m intrigued,” Isabel Maru says, a hint of glee in her voice. “What do you want?”

Martha doesn’t reply for a moment, then the question tumbles out.

“When you were growing up, before Diana, did you… fight? I mean, politically. For your rights. Against… the government.”

The line is silent for a moment, then Isabel says slowly,

“Everything was a fight back then, Martha.  _ Existing _ was a fight.”

Martha squirms, then props the phone against her shoulder and pushes aside the covers so she can crawl into bed. The leaflet from Ed is still sitting on her nightstand.

“But you did things. Organized and marched and all that.”

“Marching is only a show of force, to attract attention and show that you have the masses on your side,” Isabel says, her voice snide.  _ “Real _ change comes through threats: threatening someone’s pocketbook, or their reputation, or their legacy—”

“I’m not trying to threaten anyone,” Martha says quickly. “Nothing like that. I just… I’m wondering what to do, now that I’m here. I mean, I’m just a housewife, I don’t have a clear path, an obvious skill set like you. But it seems so useless to just rattle around the house and farm all day.”

“Then don’t.” It’s so simple and ballsy that, for a wild moment, Martha thinks that the chemist has morphed into John Constantine. 

“You’re very helpful,” Martha sighs, sitting up and fumbling with the portable fan until it starts to oscillate, and then flopping back down and pulling the covers up to her chin.

“You are not  _ obligated  _ to do a thing. And you seem to attract enough trouble, as is. But if your goal is to die as soon as possible, playing it safe seems like an odd choice.”

Martha blinks. There’s a murmured voice in the background on the line, and Isabel’s words grow muffled.

_“The woman is in hell,_ _Princesa_ , _do you think she doesn’t already a plan or two up her sleeve?”_

Diana’s voice says something low and dangerous, then the line crackles.

“My wife wishes to know if you are in danger of hurting yourself,” Isabel says, her dry voice making Martha jump.

“Listen, I—I was just wondering about the politics thing, I…”

“Martha.”

The phone is suddenly heavy in her hand, the sound of the fan suddenly quiet. Isabel breathes on the other end of the line, and Martha doesn’t want to answer.

“It’s different.”

“How?”

“I know what’s waiting. I know I belong there.”

“Pain is temporary. It’s not something you need to be afraid of.”

“...are you telling me to—to  _ do _ it?” Martha says incredulously. Isabel gives a soft laugh, but somehow, it only sounds sad.

“I’m on your side, Martha Kent: I believe life is overrated. But death is so permanent, that is, unless you’re one of  _ these _ fools...” Isabel grunts slightly, apparently having just nudged her unmovable wife. “It seems such a waste, doesn’t it? To give it up in the name of pain? Your own wife endured far more suffering than you are now, and she fought tooth and nail to cling to her life, even as they tried their very best to drag it away from her.”

The line beeps with an incoming call, and Martha jerks in surprise. There are tears welling in her eyes, and she swipes impatiently at them as she leans in to look at the caller ID.

_ “Who on earth do I know in 913,  _ I—I’m sorry, Isabel, let me just get this—” Martha stammers, tossing the covers aside and pressing a button on her phone, clearing her throat.  _ “Yes,  _ hello?”

Her voice is still shaky.

“Hello, yes—is this Martha Kent?”

It’s the lesbian running for the House. Martha sits up, heart hammering, and presses the phone against her ear with a trembling hand. The woman apologizes for calling her home, but she’d just been talking with Ed McClatchy and she wants to invite her to speak at a rally she’s holding with some farmers; it’ll be at a church 15 miles up the highway…

_ Well, I’ll be honest, I think that’s the silliest idea I’ve ever heard,  _ she replies without thinking, and the woman laughs. She has a nice laugh, warm and comfortable.

_ That’s what they told me when I decided to run. _

And Martha sighs and glances down at the frumpled sheets, her fingers fiddling absently with the worn cotton, and she remembers the newspapers, the radio—wasn’t it just a few weeks ago she was raging to her son about how terrible this world was?—and she remembers when she first saw those horrible signs on the TV some 20 years ago, when a boy barely older than Clark was murdered in Wyoming, and Jonathan was dead, and Clark had just decided to go off on his own, and Martha wanted to hold onto him and never let go, at least, not until the world understood that being different was nothing to be afraid of…

Isn’t this what she wanted? After all, why  _ had  _ she agreed to meet again with Ed, and why is Isabel Maru waiting on the other line if this isn’t what she wanted? Queen Hippolyta wouldn’t have hesitated. She would’ve heard the clamor of injustice and gone out to meet it head-on. Meanwhile, Martha is curled up in her bed in the middle of a weekday afternoon with the AC and fan running—

“Well, what the hell.” Her voice sounds odd in her own ears, and it’s because she’s crying. She’s  _ crying _ on the phone with a strange woman who may be her representative one day. Damn Isabel, damn Clark, damn Hippolyta, damn everyone who did this to her—“I’ll do it. Hell, I’ll do it. Sign me up.”

* * *

She likes Sylvia the moment she meets her.

They’re having a quick “meet” in a small room in the back of the church before going out to talk to the 45 people who’ve come out. Ed is there, and he’s beaming. But Sylvia, she has a firm handshake and a wide smile, and Martha has so many questions...

_ What’s it like? What is it like, being out, being proud, being… honest? _

But she doesn’t ask.

She has her speech, typed and proofread by a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, and Lois had actually been impressed with her writing. But Martha didn’t spend all those days in the New Themyscrian Senate just staring at all the pretty women (only some of the days); she had picked up things: how to speak, how to convince, how to appeal to peoples’ emotions, their intelligence, their sense of duty to justice and their country. Of course, those debates and speeches were all in Ancient Greek, but the concepts were the same.

Now, she will have to see if it works as well on farmers as it did on eons-old Amazon lawmakers.

“All right team, let’s go.”

And then Sylvia is high-fiving everyone, and then they’re walking out into the church hall, and people sitting in folding chairs are standing and clapping, and an old woman in a sweater is talking into a microphone about how excited she is about Sylvia Nathans’ campaign, and there are some other speakers, and then—

“Please welcome Mrs. Martha Kent!”

_ God, Hippolyta, the things I do for love… _

And then she’s talking, and she doesn’t even have to look at her notes, and people are staring at her, and some of them are nodding, rubbing their chins in agreement, and as they applaud, the sun breaks through the clouds... and just for a moment, the rays of light filter through the high windows to beam softly across the floor.

* * *

Bruce Wayne is the one who pays off her bills. Bruce Wayne is her “life insurance” fund.

Martha doesn’t remember quite when she realizes this, but at some point there was a call from Alfred Pennyworth, and he tells her in his terribly bored voice that his master had been instructed to  _ ensure that the human woman wants for nothing in the world of man…  _ and Martha had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing—and to keep from ordering a private spaceship that would allow her to visit her son whenever she wished.

The crops are harvested in September.

Martha gives three speeches between the time the harvesters first go out into the fields, and the last of the produce is shipped off to storage or to be sold. For the first time in her life, she doesn’t have to worry about selling the crops at the highest profit in order to make ends meet.

They drive in zigzags up and down and across Kansas, and Martha gets to know her flat-as-a-pancake state inside and out. They drive past Westboro Baptist Church, and Martha’s heart drops into her stomach, but Ed points her to across the street, where a house is painted with the colors of the rainbow.

When they get word that the rainbow house has been attacked with bullets and graffiti, Sylvia immediately plans an event on the front lawn. And it seems like the whole town comes out for the rally, hundreds of voices cheering as speaker after speaker steps up to the makeshift stage Ed had driven down from Sylvia’s main office. Martha is watching the speeches from behind the stage, standing in the shade of the porch, when she spots the figures beginning to line the sidewalk across the street, the tell-tale hate signs in their hands...

“—with liberty, justice, and  _ equality _ for all!”

Ed nudges her, and she tears her eyes away from the protesters. The crowd gathered on the lawn is cheering, and Sylvia has her fist raised to the sky, every bit a warrior as any Amazon, and then a woman comes out to join her on the stage, and they share a kiss…

And it’s the most perfect thing Martha has ever seen.

* * *

Election Night is spent in a bar outside of Wichita.

Martha remembers driving down these roads with Laura Lang all those decades ago, going to the city to watch naked women dancing for money…

Olivia Marsden wins reelection.

Sylvia Nathans loses by four percentage points.

Martha’s eyes are filled with angry tears when Sylvia calls the winner to concede and congratulate him on a successful campaign. But the woman herself comes around and embraces her hard and tells her that  _ the fight is only beginning. _

Martha goes home and the horses come out to greet her when she gets out of the truck, and she pets them and leads them to the barn where they should be staying warm and dry—

And the black chariot is peeking out at her from the corner. Hippolyta had apparently put it there the morning they arrived and had thrown a faded sheet over it, but tonight the sheet is gone, and the chariot is sitting amongst the hay, shiny as the first night she laid eyes on it...

She’s been counting the days, of course. Lighting her candle, saying her prayers. But everything has been such a blur since spring, a rapid, merciful blur, and…

Aethon nickers in her ear, and a rush of joy floods her insides. 

_ 43 more days… six and a half weeks. _

She can remember six and a half weeks ago. It felt like days ago, hours ago.

“We’re going home.”

Her voice is barely a whisper, soft and full of hope.

And then she’s dancing with the horses like some puritan witch, and her heart is bursting with joy, and they leap and twirl and caper about the shadowed barn until she collapses and falls asleep right there on the velvet seat, Aethon’s head in her lap, and Nycteaus’ cheek pressed up against her own.

* * *

She shouldn’t be nervous.

She was a frumpy old woman when she first met Queen Hippolyta in Gotham, and a frumpier old woman when they met on her driveway.

But it feels different. She’d gotten her hair cut and shaved her legs and moisturized and exfoliated and tried different perfumes and day creams and night creams and went through outfit after outfit, trying to find the perfect one for when her wife sees her again for the first time in an  _ ungodly _ number of years…

“I’m so happy for you, Mrs. Kent.”

Lois and Diana have come to watch the house in her 14.5 hour absence, and Martha has stuffed the fridge and shelves with food for them: popcorn, cupcakes, brownies, donuts, ice cream, artisan cheeses, fruit platters and veggie trays—which are nothing like those in New Themyscira, but since it’s almost winter, it’s the best she could cobble together from Walmart... Bruce Wayne’s life insurance fund has served her well this week (she’d just barely stopped herself from buying matching PJs for the girls night). But Diana is seemingly taking Martha up on her invitation to use anything in the house, judging the classical music playing through the radio speakers, and the number of pots and pans already scattered across the counter and kitchen table.

“I think Diana’s going to teach me how to _ cook,”  _ Lois whispers almost frantically, sneaking upstairs to find Martha in her bedroom. She sounds just as nervous as Martha feels, and she gives a soft laugh and pats the younger woman’s shoulder.

“There’s nothing wrong with knowing how to cook.”

Lois makes a face, then disappears down the steps once more at a call from the Amazon goddess, and Martha reaches out a trembling hand and smoothes it over her quilted bedspread. She’d changed the sheets and vacuumed and dusted, making sure everything is neat in case Hippolyta comes back again with her… then the clock strikes 5, and she slings her Themysciran pack onto her back and makes her way down the stairs, leaving her keys on the nightstand. She doesn’t dare take them with her… after all, there’s no telling what might happen in 2500 years.

Diana turns away from the delicious-smelling stew that’s bubbling on the stove and envelopes her in a long embrace. Her breath tickles Martha’s ear as she asks her to greet her mother for her. And then Lois is hugging her and wishing her well, and suddenly, she’s on her porch, closing the door behind her.

She had harnessed the horses to the chariot earlier, and they’re already standing in the middle of her driveway. A light snow is beginning to fall once more, they’re whinnying and stamping the air, ready to be off. 

The sun setting on the horizon is not visible through the snow and clouds, but the world is growing darker and darker by the minute, and Martha settles down onto her chariot, shivering slightly from the cold, wishing she had brought a watch or cell phone or clock or something. The sun is scheduled to set at 5:15, and it had been 5 o’clock when she made her way downstairs and it must’ve taken five or six minutes to walk out here, and it’s been at  _ least  _ seven that she’s been sitting and shivering, right?

_ God, I hope the girls aren’t watching from the window, watching silly old me waiting in the snow for my knight in shining armor... _

She’s so caught up in her worries, so busy scanning the cold, white nothingness surrounding her, she barely notices when the horses lift off, barely notices they’re moving further up into the snow. And it’s a good thing it is snowing, because she can see the farm as it gets smaller and whiter, the little cars driving slowly down the powdery roads, headlights glowing, windshield wipers on… and then they’re enveloped in cold, wet clouds, and then, unbelievably, the sky is blue overhead, the bluest blue she could never imagine, and then it grows dark as they leave the atmosphere, and she shouldn’t be nervous, but the last two times she made the journey between her worlds, Hippolyta had been kissing her, and she’d felt so safe, but now, she can see the complete emptiness above and below: she can see the stars and galaxies floating all around, so fiery and bright, she can't stand to look as they hurl past; she can see that the blue wonder that they call “sky” is in fact empty, endless space that goes on and on, and then they’re speeding faster and faster and faster, and it’s as if they’re spiraling, and for a horrible moment, Martha thinks the horses went the wrong way, they’re getting sucked into a black hole, they’re being rejected by the Underworld, they’re just going to funnel, spinning around and around and around for the rest of time—

A hand reaches out from the dark and seizes her own. 

The horses are whinnying loudly in excitement.

And then she feels the sand beneath her feet. Catches a glimpse of the cold sun setting over the lake. Cold armor and fur against her cheek.

And Hippolyta’s arms are around her, cradling her, holding her close.

_ “Little one…” _

Cool lips are pressing against her forehead, and salt water splashes down onto Martha’s cheeks.

“‘polyta,” she croaks. She must have passed out. How utterly perfect is that, that she spent an entire year dreaming of her reunion with her wife, and she  _ passed out— _

“Are you all right?”

She used to love that voice. She used to listen to it, let it fill her, let it tug her lips up into a smile, let it send her heart racing, let it send her into nervous spasms like a silly teenager…

“Are you real?” The words sound abrupt and broken in her ears, but the arms holding her shift slightly, and then soft lips are pressing up against hers as if in response, and she raises a trembling hand to run her fingers through that familiar tangle of hair, the cold metal of that crown, and then she’s sitting up and sliding her arms around that neck, and Hippolyta is looming over her, her body gently pressing hers into the sand, and—

She’d forgotten how good her wife is at kissing.

_ “God,  _ I’ve missed you,” she sighs, somewhere halfway between a moan and a prayer, knowing even as she says it what an understatement it is, after an entire year of longing and lonely nights and despairing that this day would never come... but wet teeth bite lightly at her lower lip, and golden silk is tickling the side of her face as Hippolyta slowly pulls away, eyes gleaming with mischief as she gazes down at her in the moonlight.

_ “Prove it.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: Isabel can call Martha by her first name because technically, she’s about 80 years older than her. :P Also, she knows firsthand a thing or two about losing a wife (I’m not sure if the scarring happened before or after Johanna left/died, but the mass murders definitely happened in the aftermath…), and she’s actually a really smart choice for Martha to turn to, for some issues at least.
> 
> Fun Fact II: Wichita is part of the Kansas’ 4th Congressional district, and Topeka (where Equality House and the hellhole across the street are) is part of the 2nd, but I choose to ignore both these things for the sake of fiction. (Also, there’s no reason why a candidate running for Congress can’t visit places outside of the district they’re trying to win, so there).
> 
> Fun Fact III: Anyway, remember that thing I teased way at the beginning of this act right before introducing all the angst? That’s finally happening ~~18 chapters later!~~
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Thanks so much for reading!! You survived the angst and I'm so proud of you!!!!


	39. Breathe Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha returns to the Underworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: THIS CHAPTER IS SO LONG

It’s harder than she thought it would be.

After Zeus shamed Hera into marrying him, they spent three hundred years on the island of Samos, a time that Hera still recalls with a bitterness that does not quite hide the longing in her eyes.

_They will tell our story..._

Martha wonders if they will tell this part, of how she and Hippolyta laid together on the beach and rosy-fingered Dawn smiled down upon them as she painted her colors across the sky, of how the fragile human clung to her wife like a baby clings to its mother, refusing to allow the powerful goddess to budge from the flower-strewn sheet of silk that had been laid over the soft pillows of sand. She wonders if they will be able to describe, to understand just how _difficult_ it is, not to make love to the Queen for days and weeks on end, but to finally let her go, to fall back, and allow her to inhabit her own space once more...

She wants to be joined with her until the end, wife and wife, Queen and Queen, lover and lover, skin to skin, until Father Time himself shakes his head and turns away in defeat, unable to tear them asunder.

_It hurts,_ she cries, and Hippolyta immediately pulls away, but Martha holds onto her even tighter. _Not that. Not that, Lyta…_

It hurts to be whole again. It hurts to remember what she’d been missing. It hurts to wrap her flimsy little arms around her lover and realize that this is only a moment in time, and sooner than later it will be ended, and they’ll be separated once more…

It frightens her how much she loves her. It frightens her how much she _needs_ her, it frightens her how she ever could have imagined life without her, as if every second they’ve been apart has been a murky dream, some fantasy she made up to keep herself from going insane while she wandered the valley of shadows...

_Don’t stop,_ she whispers against cool skin. The night wind is rolling over the waves, and she shivers from the chill, but she can't stop.

_Little one…_

She hears the soft rebuke in her wife’s low voice, but she shakes her head.

_Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop…  
_

She can’t even look her in the face, the face she’d seen every night as she stared at the moonlight glowing across her dark ceiling, the face she’d seen every morning when she opened her front door and the rising sun’s rays cut into her eyes, the face she’d seen every evening when she stepped naked into the shower and let the hot water stream over her skin.

Hippolyta wants to be reasonable. She can hear the goddess’ thoughts as if they’re her own, _We can’t spent the entire time like this, Martha,_ or, _Let me see your pretty face, darling, you came all this way—will you not allow me even that?_ or, _I created all these wonders and worlds for you, and yet you only wish to partake in these base, carnal desires..._

But Martha wants to be selfish.

She wants to bury herself in Hippolyta, she wants to smother herself in Hippolyta, she wants to strangled herself with Hippolyta, she wants to suffocate herself with Hippolyta, she wants to cut herself on Hippolyta, she wants to drown herself in Hippolyta, she wants to crush herself beneath Hippolyta, she wants to bleed out, fall to pieces, crumble, disintegrate, she wants to be worn down until there is nothing she can do but breathe Hippolyta, Hippolyta, _Hippolyta…_

Let them tell their stories.

They will never be able to tell of _this._

* * *

Martha Kent wakes up smiling.

She had been dreaming of light: light dancing over water, light filtering through open windows, light glowing softly through thin curtains, light warming her skin, light reaching in and seizing her heart, setting her very pulse ablaze…

She wakes to find her face buried against cold skin, and she tilts her head back, blinking in confusion—and then a hot blush creeps up over her cheeks, because she’s staring at a wide expanse of smooth skin, and not just skin, but some very _specific_ skin covering a pair of extremely attractive—

Martha pushes forward a little, rubbing her cheek against the cool swells of her lover’s breasts, trying to quell the heat racing through her veins. There’s a muscular arm propped beneath her head, and another slung across her shoulders, a firm hand resting against her bare back. The Queen is silent, motionless, but the room is filled with the distant sounds of the morning: the ocean, the wind through the trees, the seagulls and forest birds singing to the rising sun… Martha sighs happily and shifts her head to give the dark, pebbled nipple against her cheek a little lick, and she smothers a giggle, scooting forward to continue in the same vein, but suddenly she catches a glimpse of Hippolyta’s face, and panic floods her limbs as she realizes that the woman is _awake,_ her blue eyes gazing calmly down at her.

“...h—hi,” Martha stammers, her face flushing all over again, this time with a heated mixture of guilt and arousal.

“Hi,” the Queen replies gamely, and Martha tries to frown, but the hand against her back rises to comb gently through her tangled hair, then Hippolyta leans in to kiss her forehead.

“You have not changed, little one.”

“Don’t, it’s been a _very_ long time since I’ve seen any…” Martha starts to protest, but Hippolyta grins at her, and Martha’s tongue twists abruptly and she turns away.

_Damn these Amazons and their blinding, inhuman beauty.  
_

“Where are we?” she says instead, yawning widely. Hippolyta props her head up with one hand and trails her fingertips teasingly over Martha’s bare knee.

“We are in bed.”

_“Lyta...”_ Martha sighs, but she busies herself with wiggling her limbs, making sure they’re all still working after last night—or however many nights it’s been...

_“God,_ I’m out of practice,” she mutters to herself, wincing as she cranes her stiff neck.

“Good.”

Martha pauses and glances down at where Hippolyta is still lying naked on the bed, her long limbs tangled with the sheets, her eyes staring shrewdly at her. A tense moment passes, then Martha crawls up to her and presses a hesitant kiss to her lips.

“Are… are you out of practice, too?”

“No.” And Hippolyta reaches out and curls a strand of Martha’s hair around her fingers, seemingly unaware of how her lover’s racing heart has plummeted into her stomach.

“No?” Martha bites her lip. “Who…?”

“After you left, I sent for the tailors, and I asked them to make for me a likeness, about this tall—” She pats the top of Martha’s head, ignoring her heavy frown. “—and about this wide.” Her hands reach down to circle Martha’s waist, then she leans in and kisses her, firm and gentle.

“They gave it arms and legs, stuffed it with the finest straw from Elysium, fresh and fragrant... and they gave it the most beautiful face I have ever seen,” she continues, her voice a low, husky murmur now, and Martha shivers as the Queen’s lips slip over her forehead, eyelids, cheekbones. “I named it _Martha,_ and when they brought her into my rooms, I made love to her day and night.”

Martha blinks, her mind wavering between relief and disgruntlement—what, is she going to be jealous of a _doll?_ But the image is just so bizarre, she can’t… she opens her mouth to make some attempt at a careless, nonchalant comment, but then she catches a glimpse of the mischievous smile on her wife’s lips and she stops herself from saying something stupid.

“Did you _really_ do that?”

“No.”

_“Hippolyta,”_ Martha groans, slapping her wife’s arm in mock reprove, then she sits up, tossing aside the covers. “I forgot how _horrible_ you are—look at you, trying to make me jealous of a—a stuffed toy?!”

“Where are you going?”

“Someplace where you can’t _tease_ me.”

But a strong arm circles her waist, stopping her, and Martha lets out a shriek as she is dragged, laughing, back into her lover’s arms, and she wrestles the powerful goddess onto her back, pinning her broad shoulders down into the furs and pillows.

“You don’t get to do that,” she growls between kisses. “You don’t get to torment me, not after you left me like you did, leaving without a _goodbye—God,_ Hippolyta, that was… that was _cruel.”_

But her kisses are tender, and Hippolyta cups her cheeks and whispers, _I am sorry,_ against her lips, and Martha forgives her at once...

* * *

She bathes in the lake. It's somehow night again, and the dark, silky swells of the water are like a balm on her skin. Hippolyta had joined her in the water for a time, but she has since returned to the shore, wringing out her long hair, watching with a smile as Martha floats along on the water, weightless as if she were flying, gazing up at the glittering stars and planets that fill the sky overhead.

When she finally drags herself back to the beach, Hippolyta is standing there waiting, a flickering lantern in one hand, and a soft towel in the other. She’s not wearing her armor or even a tunic; she’s dressed in a button-down that’s a few sizes too big for her, the sleeves rolled up, the hem reaching halfway down her thighs. The woman hadn’t bothered putting on any pants, and Martha gulps, cursing her racing heart, what, like she hadn’t just spent _all day_ in bed getting fucked in the best ways possible... but Hippolyta looks like some sort of beach guardian angel, the sharp lines of her beautiful face half lit by the glow of the lantern, and sitting at her feet—wonder of wonders—is not a mighty beast worthy of an angel or Queen, but that silly fluffball Dusty, who is apparently too busy scratching himself to notice her.

“Oh my God, what on…?”

And then he’s finally spotted her and his ears flop with excitement, and all at once, he’s barking and racing toward her, kicking up sand, and then he leaps into her arms, licking her face, making enough racket to wake the Isle of Blest, and she’s laughing and trying to get away from his slobbery kisses, and she finally gets him to settle down, and she buries her face in his fur, then turns slightly to look up at her towering wife.

“You… you know about the attack. Those men…”

“Yes, they were here. And now they are gone.”

Martha gives Dusty’s furry face a last kiss, then clambers to her feet, seizing the towel from her wife’s hand and beginning to dry herself.

“The horses got a little excited, I almost wish..."

_Do not kill if you can wound, do not wound if you can subdue..._

“They were going to harm you. There is no excuse for that, none.”

“Oh, _Lyta,_ they were just some cronies, some goons sent by Lex Luthor. They were just following orders.”

“That does not absolve them, Martha.”

The Queen’s voice has grown dangerous, and Martha shivers.

“I’m all right, anyway. It all worked out,” she murmurs, rubbing her cheek lightly against Hippolyta’s cotton-covered bicep.

“What—this is new. Why are you wearing so much clothes?”

Hippolyta grins at the unexpected conversation shift as she leads her to the porch of the house.

“Am I no longer allowed to dress without permission from you, My Lady?”

“No, you are not. Take it off,” Martha says in a failed attempt at a stern voice, smothering her laughter behind her hand. Hippolyta throws back her head, eyes sparkling, and says airily,

_“Take it off yourself.”_

* * *

Eventually, they make it to the kitchen, and Martha finds exactly what she needs to make her wife an even better fried chicken dinner than they’d had in Smallville.

“I couldn’t practice... _that—_ but I did practice this,” she says sheepishly as she pats the raw chicken thighs dry and whisks her spices together one last time. The oil is already beginning to bubble, and Hippolyta and Dusty are both watching her from the breakfast nook with the exact same expression on their faces. She’d refused their help, her cheeks burning as she told Hippolyta, _you’ve done enough._ But it is nice to cook for people again, nice to have a family again.

As she’s cooking, she asks Hippolyta for updates on their people, and she tells her about how Antiope has begun a series of battle training sessions on ships, a spectacle that has become popular viewing entertainment along the Styx. The Amazons have destroyed so many ships in their mock-battles that the shipyards have begun to build vessels specifically for the sport, and Laura Kent has all but been inducted into the Amazon Army. She tells about how the years have gone down peacefully (except for the occasional cannon boom in the distance), how the crops have been planted and harvested, the cities have crumbled and been rebuilt, and those who would do harm to others have been deterred…

And then her voice trails off, and her gaze becomes distant and Martha turns to look curiously at her as she’s bringing the bowls of food and basket of fried chicken over to the small table.

“What’s wrong?”

And Hippolyta catches her hand, stopping her from bustling back to the kitchen, and she reaches up to sweep a stray hair back behind Martha’s ear.

“I’ve missed you, little one.”

“I've missed you, too.”

But the troubled look in Hippolyta’s eyes does not soften.

“I… did not anticipate how much I would miss you.”

Martha slides slowly down into the seat across from her, ignoring Dusty’s nose poking at her legs.

“What are you saying?”

“I have endured much in my lifetime, Martha Kent,” the Queen says quietly, looking down at their entwined hands. “Endured much pain, lost all those whom I loved, lost my rule, my dignity, my soul… but nothing could have prepared me for the pain of losing you.”

The vat of hot oil behind them pops, but Martha doesn't move.

“The Amazons… they exiled me for a time, and my sister performed the duties of Queen in my stead. I am a warrior, a peacemaker, a healer of nations, but in the months and years after your departure, I was so crippled by my grief, I could not eat, or speak, or even raise my head… and in time, Antiope brought me word that the Senate had declared me unfit to rule. Never has such a shame happened in our history, and yet... I could not bring myself to care. They sent me to wander the Asphodel Fields, and I found refuge with those who were healing. The goddesses… Great Hera, the mother over all, sheltered me for a time in her realm, and of all the beings in the Underworld, she understood the pain of love lost, and she allowed me to grieve.

“I thought I could bear it; I thought I could rely on my own great strength and resilience, that I could rejoice in the fact that you would live a long, full life, the life you deserve. But it destroyed me, far more than anything I have encountered. And there has not been a day since I kissed you beneath the stars of your homeland that I have not wept bitterly over you, little one.”

Martha stares, tears welling in her eyes as Hippolyta bends her head to brush a kiss over her knuckles.

“Oh, _Lyta…”_

_I missed you, too. I prayed for you every morning. I lit a candle, and my heart ached, and I cursed everything and everyone who tore us apart until I didn’t have the energy to hate anymore… Hippolyta…  
_

“...let me stay.”

But the Queen turns her face away, and she only says in a low, empty voice,

“No.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this, we don’t—”

“No.”

“I can do it, I _will,_ I’ve thought about it, I have a plan—”

“No.”

_“Stop_ me.”

“Martha Kent…” And Hippolyta reaches out and pulls her into her lap, and for a long time, they don’t speak, just hold each other, but it’s different than the way they’ve been holding each other since Martha arrived, it’s some deeper need than even the depths of their sexual connection, as immense as it is...

_I want you. I want you, I want you,_ Martha had begged in the weeks after Hippolyta had first brought her here, back when she had been stumbling through this world, through this relationship like a newborn deer, but now that desire seems so flimsy, so meaningless compared to this roaring ache filling her now.

_“My darling…”_ Hippolyta’s lips are pressing against her forehead, arms wrapped tightly around her as they rock slightly back and forth. “We will have time enough to grieve, My Lady. We will have time enough for all things. But this time is for you, and it is precious. We cannot...”

_Don’t waste it,_ Martha hears, slowly pulling herself away from her wife’s grasp. The woman is smiling a watery smile down at her, and then she kisses her, and it is a simple kiss, an everyday kiss, a kiss for two, ordinary people who love one another and have none of this cruel angst and injustice tearing their worlds in two.

“I have something I wish to show you, later,” the Queen goes on, reaching for one of the soft biscuits Martha had set out on a silver platter. “You will forget your grief, and in the face of your joy, I will forget mine.”

Martha squirms, but it is clear that Hippolyta has nothing more to say, and she didn’t wait all this time and come all this way to argue, so she sits and begins to eat, and Dusty is prancing about underfoot, his wet nose and tongue frantically poking everywhere for scraps, and when Hippolyta leans in and presses a greasy kiss to her lips, Martha finally allows herself to smile.

* * *

  
Martha piles food before her beautiful wife like a never ending offering, until the woman rises, seizes her wrist to keep her from dumping more mashed potatoes onto her plate, and gives her a smile that is sweeter than the cake Martha left cooling on the counter.

“No, little one,” she chides when Martha tries to pile up the dirty dishes. _“I_ will clean, and you will tell me of your life in Man’s World.”

And so Martha sits at the table with Dusty’s head in her lap, and she tells Hippolyta about spending Bruce Wayne’s money, and trying to find her place in her little town, and driving up and down the dusty roads like some missionary looking for souls to save. She tells her about how the Justice League had built a satellite to live in when they’re not saving the world, she tells her that Clark comes to visit far less than she thought he would, that the first few months… were difficult. She tells her about the election, and how Ed’s enthusiasm is too much, and how Sylvia is a warrior worth fighting for, and how man’s world is seeped in hate and war and injustice, and how every day, every hour, every _breath_ she took, she missed her...

She bows her head and Dusty licks her face, as he had so many times before… and Hippolyta’s arms slip around her, the dishtowel in her hand tickling the side of Martha’s arm.

_“I’m sorry.”_

“You _should_ be,” Martha mutters against her hair, but she can’t stay angry at her, not really. She wipes her face and turns to brush her reddened nose against her wife’s. Hippolyta’s eyes are so blue as they stare back into hers, for a moment, she can’t breathe.

“It’s later.”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t you have something to show me? Something that will make me happy?”

And Hippolyta grins, and sweeps Martha up into her arms.

“I do _indeed,”_ she murmurs with that low, sultry tone that makes Martha swear that it’s possible to orgasm from sound alone... “Come.”

Martha shivers as that giddy feeling of anticipation rushes through her veins as Hippolyta sets her on her feet, seizes her hand and leads her from the kitchen. The world outside is still dark, but the house is framed by a porch with lanterns strung from the rafters and railings, and Martha knows that Hippolyta lit every one, cut every tree, sawed every trunk, and hammered every board…

For _her._

“You didn’t have to do this,” Martha murmurs over and over as they walk from room to room, as she stares wide-eyed at the vaulted ceilings and enormous windows and long, polished hallways... it seems almost as big as the palace, although Martha can’t imagine how such a thing could be possible. But she reaches out a trembling hand and brushes her fingertips over marble pillars and limestone walls and wooden beams, and she can do nothing but murmur soundlessly. Hippolyta leans in and presses kiss after kiss upon her trembling lips, a subtle effort, perhaps, to shut her up...

The last place they reach is a garden. It is small: four planter boxes, a fountain, a few shrubs, and a winding pathway leading through it all. A sandbox sits in the corner, beside a fenced-in pond with a bench along the edge. Martha spots a family of bright koi fish swimming about in its depths. It is not shabby by any means, but it is nothing like her national park of a garden that she knows is waiting for her where Persephone’s valleys used to be.

“What is this?”

But Hippolyta is studying her, watching as Martha’s expression shift between gratitude and confusion, and her eyes are sparkling.

“Look.”

And she leads her back to the house, to the door that leads directly to the gardens, and when she opens it and waves a hand so that the room glows with light, Martha gasps.

Lilac.

She remembers, all those years and years ago, staring hard at the palace guest rooms, then going out and perusing the shops until she found one that understood that she wished to _paint the walls._ And later, when Hippolyta had come in to find her whistling happily with a smock over her shoulders and a brush in her hand, she’d given her a sheepish smile and said,

_Lilac is a nice, neutral baby color, right?_

“You remembered,” she says, her voice suddenly choked, and Hippolyta takes both her hands and kneels down before her. The floor is not stone or wood, but soft, fluffy carpet, and in the corner is a cradle, and two rocking chairs…

“I remembered.” Hippolyta presses a kiss to each of her palms, and stares tenderly up at her. “I remembered everything.”

And Martha leans down to kiss her forehead, heart thudding loudly in this quiet room.

“Do... you still want this? A baby, a child, with me, do you still…?”

Hippolyta pauses and gives her a look that is half-disbelieving and half-exasperated, and Martha makes a face in return.

“Don’t look at me like—look, it’s not polite to assume, and it’s been a long time since we talked about this last, and—”

_“Yes.”_

“Yes?” Martha asks, her voice shaking, and Hippolyta gives her a single nod, a broad smile spreading across her face, and Martha shivers.

“So… so how do we do this?” She’s suddenly nervous, her mind racing, wondering if she should’ve gone to see the doctor before coming here, if she should’ve exercised more, planned for this, somehow…

But Hippolyta is still holding onto her hands, and her eyes are gleaming as she gazes up at her.

“Come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: I had this chapter ready to go since Monday, but something was bothering me about it, and so I retooled it yesterday and ended up adding the entire first section, which is now my favorite part. Life lesson: If it’s broke, fix it!! :P
> 
> Fun Fact II: I can’t wait for this act to wrap up so I can start posting normal length chapters again. These 3-4k chapters are _killing_ me. ~~Hurry up, Wonder Baby~~
> 
> Fun Fact III: Thanks for reading!! You're still reading!! And that's amazing!!


	40. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The creation of a Princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: I think this is the longest chapter yet!

At some point, Martha stops asking.

If nothing else, being with Hippolyta has taught her to be patient—and if she cannot be patient, than to be impatient in silence, but this… this is almost more than she can bear.

She remembers every second of that night, the night Hippolyta smiled a shy smile at her as she drew her into their baby’s room, and then she had whispered, _Come with me,_ and she had led her out onto the wet, open sand of the beach and given some hot, spiced wine that had sped through her veins like a _freight train,_ and then Hippolyta’s hands were caressing her skin, strong and gentle, and Martha was panting, her heart racing a thousand miles a minute, and Hippolyta had encouraged Martha to touch her, and she had taken her time bringing her wife up to ecstacy, but when that powerful body had trembled atop hers at the stroke of her fingertips… she’d never seen anything so perfect...

They’d made love until the moon was directly overhead and the cool water was lapping up against their feet, then Hippolyta had pushed herself up, her loose hair falling in waves down her smooth back, and she’d gathered up Martha hands, guiding her, forming a shape in the sand…

 _I remember…_ the Queen had murmured to herself, but her voice caught and she said softly, _That night was dark at first, full of despair and tears and longing… tonight is different._

At some point, Martha was aware of the Pantheon standing over them in the waves, enormous, mighty, imposing: Hestia, Artemis, Hera, Athena, Demeter, Aphrodite… their watching eyes bright as they took in every detail, every loving touch as the two Queens molded the shape of a sleeping baby, their fingerprints pressed into every inch of its tiny form, the salt of the sea and their lovemaking embedded in every grain of sand…

 _Oh, Martha Kent... I love her already,_ Hippolyta had whispered in her ear as they inspected their work together, their labor of love, the strangest little sculpture Martha had ever laid eyes upon…

Then Hera had stepped forward, her towering figure reaching up to the star-strewn ceiling of the Underworld, the waves churning around her bare feet, her royal, peacock-trimmed robes sweeping behind her over the water’s restless surface.

 _My children…_ and she had knelt before them, eyes gleaming, and she looked so elegant and serene and beautiful, Martha had stared at her open-mouthed for a good minute before realizing something important was happening, and snapping back to attention as Hera took up her and Hipppolyta’s hands and laid them over the tiny figure’s sandy body.

And Martha had watched in amazement as the pale skin grew smooth, as tiny hairs sprouted from its head, as soft little nails covered its fingertips, and there—

She felt the moment her daughter— _their_ daughter—took her first breath, her lungs filling with air, her veins running with living blood… and Hippolyta began to weep as Hera lifted and set the limp body into their arms, those tiny lips parting slightly as her head sagged against Hippolyta’s bicep…

 _She’s not awake, she’s not crying, is she…?_ Martha had whispered, almost as if in a panic, somehow getting words the out despite her dry mouth… but Hippolyta had pressed a soft kiss to their sleeping daughter’s living forehead, and then looked up and brushed Martha’s lips with a kiss that was just as tender…

_She will wake when she is ready, Martha Kent._

And so they wait.

It’s strange, going about their days and weeks with a little baby sleeping in her room. It’s like she’d been cursed by a jealous witch—and at first Martha had thought this _was_ a cruel trick of Hera’s, giving them a child who lived and breathed but was not truly _alive—_ but Hippolyta had gently explained to her that it would take time, that it must take time, that theirs was a love that could only benefit from waiting, as all parents wait and long as their child grows day-by-day in the womb…

_Nine months, little one. You should be thankful: Hera wanted us to wait for nine years._

And Martha tries to be thankful, but she is not a patient woman, and Hippolyta… Hippolyta is hardly any better. 

“Dinner is ready, darling.”

Hippolyta doesn’t stir from their daughter’s bedside, and Martha comes up beside her, wrapping her arms around her wife’s back as they both stare down at the sleeping figure. Their daughter is taking her own sweet time, and every day, Martha marvels at her beating heart, watching her chest as it rises and falls, her tiny fingers and toes as they twitch in her sleep. Sometimes her little mouth opens as she yawns, and Martha’s breath catches as she stares, waiting to see if this time, her baby will open her eyes, woken at last from her long slumber.

But their sleeping beauty will not be hurried.

“I wish…”

_I wish they didn’t make us wait._

“I know.”

But Hippolyta slips her hand into hers, and Martha leans down and kisses their daughter’s forehead.

_“You are the cutest little baby I have ever seen… and we are dying to meet you.”_

The irony of the idiom is not lost on either of them, but somehow, they manage to muffle their laughter until they are well down the hall.

* * *

It is not until the 8th month that they settle on a name.

The weeks have been filled with anticipation and preparations, as a bride awaits her bridegroom. Martha plants seeds in her flowerbeds and watches them sprout into flowers and vines, and she flies the black chariot to every corner of Elysium to purchase cloth and thread and yarn. And every night, she sits in her rocking chair and makes clothes for their baby and weaves prayers into every stich and loop… and every night, Hippolyta is there, too, reading stories, singing lullabies, whispering sweet nothings. Every morning, they rise together from their bed and creep into this little room with its painted walls and soft floor, and they draw the curtains so that the shadows flee to their corners, and their daughter’s skin glows softly in the light of the sun.

“Listen, I have an idea…”

Hippolyta has given Martha the honor of naming her, keeping her promise from all those years ago. And it is a daunting task, naming a princess. Martha makes lists and talks to elders and children alike, searching cultures, perusing books and scrolls. But at last, she finds a name… a name worthy of the woman who would bear the honor and weight of being Hippolyta’s secondborn, the Princess of New Themyscira, the Daughter of the Queens of the Underworld.

They are standing together in the garden, the stars gleaming overhead. Martha knows each one’s name now, having searched the skies and sea and land for a word that has both meaning and beauty.

“...and I was thinking, on that first morning, beside the lake at Bruce Wayne’s house, when we first spoke to one another...” Martha stands on her tiptoes and whispers into Hippolyta’s ear. But the Queen looks puzzled when Martha pulls away to see her reaction.

“That is a man’s name.”

“What? No, it’s with W-N.”

“I do not dislike it…” Hippolyta admits, flashing a reassuring smile at Martha’s worried expression. “But it _sounds_ like a man’s name. And it is short.”

“What’s wrong with short?” Martha says, her lips twisting down into a frown. Hippolyta laughs and snuggles her deeper into her arms.

“Nothing at all, little one. But her last name is also short.”

“Last name? Since when do the Amazons have last names?” Martha says curiously, although she _had_ been worried, after all, it did seem strange to give their daughter the last name _Kent,_ and she also couldn’t use her maiden name _Clark…_

“Diana has a last name, but she was never fond of it, and apparently she goes by _Prince,_ which is… I have forgiven her.”

Martha gives her wife a sideways glance.

“...what was her last name?”

“Peloponnese.”

“Pelopo— _God,_ Hippolyta, what were you thinking? That’s... I don’t blame her, I really...”

“Do not mock me, Martha Kent, Peloponnese was the location of the Amazon’s victory over—”

“Yes, yes, but nothing you say will make it any better, My Queen,” Martha interrupts, waving a hand in Hippolyta’s face. “In fact, you had better tell me now what nonsense of a last name you have in store for our daughter before we traumatize the little thing…”

Hippolyta pretends to look offended, but she bows her graceful head and whispers into Martha’s ear. She breathes a soft sigh of relief, but her face is twisted with confusion as she pulls away to look back up to her wife.

“...why would we name her after the side that lost?”

“It was a beautiful city, the most beautiful city in the history of the world. The Amazons wept when we first laid eyes upon it, and when we built Themyscira, we fashioned our buildings and pathways after its majesty.”

“...but it still _burned.”_

“You humans, so focused on the end, on fate. Can you not enjoy beauty as it stood in—”

“Who did you sleep with when you were there?”

“Martha…”

“You slept with their Queen, didn’t you? I’ll bet you did, you _always_ do.”

“Indeed, that is why I stole away _you.”_

And Martha blushes in spite of herself.

 _“Fine..._ I’ll live with it.”

Hippolyta looks dubiously at her, and Martha smiles.

“It does have a nice ring to it. It sounds strong. Noble.”

“Indeed... and now listen, I have an idea, a solution to this name you have chosen. We can add a syllable to the end. We shall tell Diana it was in honor of her, so that my little sun and stars will not be jealous of her new sister...”

* * *

It is not only their daughter who is growing, changing. Martha finds herself staring at her reflection in the mirror one night, rubbing her back, and wondering if what she thinks is happening is _really_ happening...

When Hippolyta finds her several minutes later, she’s still staring at her own likeness, cupping her breasts with a puzzled expression on her face.

“Are you well?” 

And Martha turns to look strangely at her, too bewildered even to blush.

“Do… do they seem…different?” 

Hippolyta’s gaze darts over her breasts, and she gives a satisfied smile.

“It is almost time.”

“Time for what?” _For them to fall off?_

Hippolyta gives a soft laugh and takes her hands, kneeling to press a soft kiss to the heavy swells, careful to not disturb her sensitive nipples…

“Our baby must drink her mothers’ milk, must she not? How else will she grow to be strong and wise like you?”

Martha gapes at her, Hippolyta’s too-generous compliment not even registering in her befuddled mind.

“But—but what about _you?”_

“The goddesses have also blessed me,” Hippolyta says casually, shrugging off her robe and laying it aside. “Haven't you noticed? You play with them enough.”

And Martha finally turns deep red, muttering wordless excuses, and Hippolyta laughs again.

“It must be so, Martha Kent. When you return…” And her voice trails off before she can finish. “She will be alive, our daughter,” she says instead. “She will be fed the food of both the living and the dead. And she will be unlike any before her.”

* * *

They practice everything. Hippolyta brings in pillows and chairs and gowns and pumps and all sorts of things that Martha has never seen, and they practice a proper hold for breastfeeding, and the proper technique for burping, and the correct way to put a baby down for bed. Everything with Clark had been based on what little Martha knew from babysitting, and she’d always been stumbling her way through, trying her best, making it up as she went along…

But Hippolyta knows _everything_ about babies for some reason, and for the first time in her life, Martha wonders if it’s possible that _she_ might be the… detached parent? The less-involved parent? Sure, Jonathan had helped her with Clark, but his involvement in those early years had been fairly limited to the few hours between dinner and bedtime. And as wonderful a father and husband as he had been, they’d still lived in a world where the women took care of the babies and the men worked all day...

When the ninth moon has risen since Martha and Hippolyta formed their daughter from sand and clay, Hippolyta carefully lifts the sleeping body from the cradle and brings her into what might be called the living room (although it looks _nothing_ like any living room Martha has ever seen, more like a temple than anything). The sunlight beams through the tall windows and over the high balconies as Hippolyta lays their daughter onto a cradle in the center of the room, and here she will stay, within seeing and hearing range at all times, until she opens her eyes at last.

Martha and Hippolyta curl up on the couch that night, watching through the windows as the sun sets over the lake, Hippolyta’s head in her lap, Martha’s hands buried in her thick hair. Dusty is already snoring by the fireplace, his fluffy head resting between his front legs.

“This is going to change us.”

Hippolyta’s eyebrows raise slightly, even as her eyes stay shut.

“How so?” she murmurs, an elegant hand reaching up to stroke over Martha’s arm.

“We’re going to see each other like we’ve never seen each other before. We’re going to have responsibilities, we’ll have to work things out… _reasonably.”_

“You will have to stop hitting me when you are angry, little one,” Hippolyta says, shifting slightly so she can bury her face against Martha’s belly.

“I’m sorry,” Martha whispers, mortified. “I don’t know why I do that.”

Hippolyta’s fingers caress her warm skin for a moment longer, then her hand falls away, and Martha bends to press a kiss to her cold forehead.

“Sleep, while you can, darling,” Hippolyta sighs, and Martha shifts to lie down beside her. The fire is crackling softly in the background, and just before Martha nods off to sleep, she hears the comforting patter of rain against the windows.

* * *

Martha wakes before dawn. The lake is covered in wispy fog, still and beautiful. Hippolyta is asleep, her limbs flung in every which direction. Martha gives a wry smile, wondering how she didn’t get shoved off the couch in the middle of the night, and presses a soft kiss to her sleeping wife’s lips before rising to check her daughter. She is still sleeping, as she has been these last nine months, her tiny chest rising and falling. Martha leans in and kisses her soft, warm cheek, then creeps into the kitchen to make some coffee.

She sits for a long moment in the breakfast nook, nursing a warm mug of the bitter brew, and thinking. She enjoys her solitude, it’s one of the things she adores about Hippolyta, her ability to understand that they needn't be joined at the hip, that they don’t need to do _everything_ together. When Hippolyta had brought her here, one of the first things she’d done was take her to the stables, shown her the horses, given her permission to come and go as she pleased. It had been such a contrast to her life on the farm, where her whole day was often scheduled from sunup to sundown, those long hours keeping house for her boys.

But strange enough, she doesn’t mind the idea of becoming a housewife again. Of sitting on the beach with their daughter, of making meals and clothes and love for a living instead of worrying about the state of the world...

Martha rises and carries her mug of coffee back into the living room, where Hippolyta is still sprawled out over the couch, and she goes to the windows. The horizon is beginning to glow, last night’s rain clouds swept away with the morning. Dusty’s tail thumps twice against the fireplace, then there’s the sound of him yawning and his footfalls as they pad across the room, and his nose sniffs at the cradle.

 _“Dusty, don’t bother the ba…”_ Martha starts to whisper, then the mug of coffee slips from her hands and smashes across the marble floor. Hippolyta jerks awake, on her feet at once like the warrior she is, but for once in her life, Martha isn’t looking at her. She’s looking at her daughter, and her daughter… her daughter is looking back.

_Oh… oh, oh, oh… this is… this is happening—_

Martha tiptoes forward, and those wide eyes blink, and then blink again.

“Ab.”

A little trickle of drool rolls down those chubby cheeks as her mouth opens and closes. Her eyes look watery now, confused, and her legs are beginning to kick, as if she’s not sure what to do with them, and Martha reaches out with two trembling hands, and none too soon...

“Ab, ab—ah, _ahhhhh...”_

And those beautiful eyes scrunch up and that toothless mouth opens wide, and then the morning is pierced with the most beautiful sound in the world, the sound of their daughter’s first cry, the sound of her greeting this strange wonder called _life,_ and Martha feels tears rolling down her own cheeks as she lifts her up from her cradle, and for the first time, the baby does not settle limply into her arms, but kicks and screams and flails about, fighting like her life depends on it, and then Hippolyta’s hands are on Martha’s shoulders, fingers nimbly pulling her robe aside, and she is the one who guides their daughter forward, skin to skin, and she is the one who leads Martha back to the chair they’d designated for this moment, and she is the one who sets the thick pillow onto her lap…

_“There, there, calm yourself, my darling...”_

Martha doesn’t know if she’s talking to her or the baby… Hippolyta strokes that little back, plants a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head, just barely presses the tip of her finger into the crying mouth, and the Queen is crying, and Martha’s crying: they’re all crying as Hippolyta settles the baby into position in Martha’s arms, and that tiny mouth searches for and finally latches onto her nipple and begins to suck… and Hippolyta is the one who wipes Martha’s tears away, even as she weeps openly herself…

 _“Look, Martha Kent…”_ the Queen is murmuring between soft prayers in Ancient Greek, praises to some goddesses, the goddesses who gave them this child, probably, but Martha can’t listen, can’t stop staring down at the content little face as she sucks hungrily at her.

“Hippolyta… look at her, we did it, look what we did...” Martha chokes, rubbing her face once more over the handkerchief Hippolyta is offering to her. Already, she’s failing at parenting, a big blubbering mess on this couch, splashing tears all over this precious baby, and it feels so _strange—_ she’d never nursed Clark, had never had a baby sucking at her—she giggles, and Hippolyta looks at her, a faint smile on her lips, and her eyes full of adoration.

“What is it?”

“It tingles.”

Hippolyta presses a kiss to her lips, then eases out from behind her, speeding to the kitchen and back to bring her a glass of water—which Martha drinks at once, suddenly realizing how thirsty she is, and Hippolyta cleans up the broken cup and splatters of coffee with a wave of her hand. The sun has emerged from the lake, and its heavy rays are stretching out over the water.

“I think she’s finishing up,” Martha murmurs, watching as the little fingers poke at her breast, as those dark eyes blink slowly at her, as those fat cheeks move in and out. _“God,_ Hippolyta, she’s so cute. How did we make such a cute baby?”

The Queen reaches out as the baby’s chin droops along with her eyes, and she lifts her up into her arms, and Martha bites back her disappointment as her arms are suddenly baby-free. But Hippolyta has dropped her own robe and is gently patting her back to burp her, and it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, her goddess wife calming their baby back to sleep, rocking her slowly back and forth, whispering to her. She wishes she’d brought a camera…

She's still in a daze, staring teary-eyed when Hippolyta finally brings her back over to the couch, rocking her for a few minutes more before going still.

“Let me hold her now,” Martha whispers, trying to not sound too jealous, but Hippolyta sets the baby gently into her arms, and all is right in the world...

“Do you need anything?”

The baby smacks her lips in her sleep, and Martha gives a watery smile.

“I’ll never complain again, I... I’ll…”

But Hippolyta kisses her, and her kiss is soft and tender, then she whispers,

“I’ll make breakfast. You need your energy, little one.”

* * *

The baby has just finished her third feed and is alert and lying on the floor with her mothers, rested from her nap and full of goddess milk. They’ve been giggling and making faces together for the last ten minutes, falling more in love with every passing second—when all at once, the most unholy racket is heard from the front door. But this time, Hippolyta does not jump to her feet, blade in hand; instead, she turns slowly and gives the unrelenting door a mournful sigh.

“She could not have even given us a full day…”

_“Open this cursed door, Hippolyta! We know the babe has awoken and we will not be deterred until we have seen her for ourselves—”_

There are other voices, too, voices that seem to be trying to shush the shouting one, but they are unsuccessful up until the moment Hippolyta strolls across the room and swings open the door with an angry retort that is not quite convincing.

“Her first impression of you will be your _loud voice,_ sister—”

But Antiope doesn’t even glance at her as she pushes her way into the house, eyes locking immediately to the two figures lying on the floor.

“Aha! So this is the one for whom we have waited!” And then the Amazon General is on the floor as well, cooing as the baby stares and giggles.

“A sight for sore eyes, Hippolyta,” one of the other many Amazons who have invited themselves in says. There is a loud murmur of agreement, and Martha looks around awkwardly, suddenly feeling very short with all of these armored warriors towering over her.

“She is beautiful, truly blessed by the goddesses.”

“I remember when Diana…”

“Hera herself…”

“Does the babe have a name?”

Hippolyta pushes her way through the crowd, then she kneels and slips an arm around Martha’s waist, and her discomfort dissipates at once at her wife’s touch.

“Yes, she has a name.” Hippolyta glances at her, but Martha nods back, and the Queen raises her voice—apparently Antiope has brought the entire Amazon Army to the beach, because they’re still pouring into the living room…

“Amazons!” The room falls quiet at once, and even the baby stops babbling, staring wide-eyed up at her mother.

“I give you your Princess…”

Antiope startles as Hippolyta plucks the baby from her arms with a sideways frown and settles her back into Martha’s arms, but the general only gives a cheeky smile and steps to the side, allowing the two parents to face the crowd. The baby starts to cry, overwhelmed from all the attention, and Hippolyta leans down to kiss her wrinkled little forehead.

“I’d forgotten—”

“The _sound!”_

_“Praise Hera…”_

“Her name, My Queen… what will your daughter be called?”

“She is our daughter, Io, daughter to us all…” And Hippolyta reaches out to wrap an arm around Martha’s waist as she leads the way to the porch. Dusty whines and follows, his nose poking at Martha’s leg, determined to not be left behind. The beach is filled with people, more people than Martha has seen since she’s arrived...

“And her name is Donna…” Hippolyta whispers to her, and the baby hiccups, as if knowing she’s hearing her name for the first time, and Martha feels her sore eyes beginning to well up again as Donna squirms in her arms, and the sun beams down on them, glinting off of the sea of polished Amazon armor. And then Hippolyta lifts the baby up to see the crowd, and she shouts,

“Amazons! I give you our Princess… Donna Troy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: END OF ACT II. YOU SURVIVED THE ANGST. YOU MADE IT TO THE BABY LEVEL. (But really, I know it’s been rough, and I really appreciate that you stuck through and are still here!! :D)
> 
> Fun Fact II: Donna Troy has a few dozen origin stories and I don’t feel the slightest bit bad giving her another one. 
> 
> Fun Fact III: Parts of the final scene in this chapter were taken from Gail Simone’s run (say what you want about it, she kept the clay origin, and was openly critical when later writers decided to involve Zeus’ in Diana’s birth, and for that I worship at her alter). #StillSalty
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Shoutout to real Donna, aka spitshineboi. This was a fun coincidence!
> 
> Fun Fact V: I’m going to do my best to keep this fic within 60 chapters because I don’t want to still be writing this in 2020 (as fun and amazing as it’s been!) but please let me know what you think about longer chapters vs more chapters! I've always thought the ideal chapter length for reading online is around 2k, but I'm willing to reconsider... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	41. ACT III: The Announcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congrats to anyone who may be moving/going back to school this weekend! Here’s a chapter to read while you’re procrastinating :D

The news spreads quickly.

Jonathan Kent opens his front door one morning to find an armored Amazon guard standing on his porch, her head just slightly inclined in respect, a folded piece of parchment in her outstretched hand.

When he takes it, a photograph slips out from its folds, and his eyebrows draw together at the sight of an unfamiliar face. It’s not until he begins to read the spindly, old-fashioned script that he understands, and his hand immediately scrabbles for the nearest chair. His unbeating heart is quaking, as if threatening to give out a second time, and finally he sits heavily, eyes darting from the thick ink to the glossy photo...

The Amazon rests a firm hand on his trembling shoulder, and then she steps out, leaving him to weep in peace. He is unsure himself of whether these are tears of grief or joy, but the rising sun creeps up over the edge of his windowsill as he drops both pieces of paper onto the kitchen table and buries his head in his hands.

_...pleased to announce the birth of our daughter..._

* * *

_A gift from the goddesses, and to both our worlds…_

“Are you people still messing with that thing?”

The two ghostly figures snicker as they slide the pointer from letter to letter on the wooden board.

“C’mon, John, it’s just a bunch of college kids. One of them just asked if he’s going to lose his—”

“Where the fuck is Zee? We have a job to do.”

“So does _he—”_

“Zatanna already left,” Jason Blood says from the corner without looking up from the dusty-looking tome he’s buried in. Deadman and Orchid are laughing uproariously as the ouija board’s pointer moves in response to their meddlings, but John doesn’t move or crack a smile. “She and Napi went to New Themyscira to see if they could assist.”

“Of course they did,” John scowls, stuffing the announcement back into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette instead. “Hey, you bloody fools, start cleaning up—there’s a new Princess afoot.”

* * *

_She is full of joy and laughter, delighted at every turn by this wonder called life, and she has her parents’ full love and adoration…_

“Yeah! _Hell_ yeah! Now little Dami’s not the baby anymore!” 

“Haha, you said _hell_ yeah, like, you know. _Hell.”_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s not even funny—”

“I see your fuck’s sake, and raise you, oh for _heck’s_ sake, you know, hell and fuck, together…”

“This is good news, is it not, Master Wayne?”

Bruce’s mouth is a thin line. He doesn’t answer. He could lie, say something about how bringing superpowered children into the world is dangerous. Something about how it’s reckless, even for the Goddess of Death, flirting with fire. But he glances up, and without even turning around in his chair, he sees them: Dick, Jason, Barbara, Tim, Damien, Alfred… his family, everyone home for the holidays, and holiday crime-fighting.

_Delighted at every turn by this wonder called life._

How long ago was it that the Batcave was full of shadows, darkness, echoes of better days? Now it’s full of laughter and junk food and sweaty boys and frazzled old British butlers who try their best to not shout when disasters happen or when soda—or something stronger—is spilled across priceless artifacts...

Bruce shakes his head and pushes away the archaic-looking piece of paper. Maybe it’s not bad news. Maybe it’s nothing to worry about, for once.

Maybe he could use some of that wonder, himself.

* * *

_She is not here to be served, but to learn the meaning of service: to value and respect all life, to always pursue a greater understanding of traditions and cultures…_

“News from the Underworld.”

Those sitting around in the Watchtower game room glance up, alternate realities all around freezing as fingers press _pause,_ and J’onn J’onzz shakes his head. Ever since Captain Marvel brought five brightly suited friends into the League, the halls of the floating satellite have been loud and raunchy.

“Let’s see what this is about,” Cyborg says gravely, picking up the parchment with gloved hands. The Marvel family adore him, peppering him with questions about his days as Victory Stone, and he’s never smiled so much since the accident as he has in these last few months…

“A _baby!”_ The Marvel called Darla squeals in delight and races in a circle around the room, a blur that could give Barry a run for his money. “I want to meet her, Billy, can I meet her, I want to meet her…”

“I, uh, I don’t know about that, Darla, I’ll have to ask my super, uh, super secret contacts about arranging a meeting…”

Hal Jordan rolls his eyes and plucks the paper from Cyborg’s hands, his ring glinting as he holds it up to the light. He whistles under his breath, then casts a sideways glance at Barry as Eugene surreptitiously snatches it away from him, muttering something about _dead parchment._

“I’d better head back to Oa.”

“Should we go in on a baby present or something? I mean, I still feel bad when we did that thing…”

“Hah, you mean when we all went down and—

* * *

“—bullied them into fixing Superman and sending his mother back?” A heavy throwing ax sails across the chamber to embed in the solid rock target. “ _Damn drift messing with my stroke—_ yeah, babe, I remember, it was _shit._ What about them?”

“They’ve had a baby.”

_“What?!”_

Mera holds up the announcement, her other hand pressing against her own very pregnant belly, and Arthur rests a gentle hand on her shoulder as he takes the paper and scans it.

“... _to always seek peace, understanding, and compassion—_ dammit, how’d they beat us?”

“It’s not a _race,_ Arthur.”

“Mom! Did you know, have you heard that the Queen had—”

“The Queen of the Underworld—”

“Have you heard that Queen _Hippolyta,_ not Queen Mera, had a baby?”

He doesn’t understand why his mother’s eyes light up the same way they had when he’d announced his and Mera’s own pregnancy. He doesn’t understand why she turns away, hand over her mouth, not quite succeeding at muffling a happy sob. He glances back and shrugs at Mera, who shakes her head at him, understanding everything perfectly.

“Thanks be to the gods,” Queen Atlanna whispers, pressing the parchment against her full heart. Arthur stares at her, bewildered, and she gives him a soft smile and kisses his bearded cheek. “Oh, darling… I’ll have to tell Tom. He’ll be so pleased.”

* * *

_...and to share in others’ joy and despair as dearly as if it were her own._

“I think that’s the last of everything, unless you have some more poisons hidden beneath the floorboards… Isabel?”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Diana has a…”

“A what?”

Isabel takes off her glasses, looking up to stare blearily out over the packed boxes, the empty desk. 90 years ago, she was drugged and kidnapped, brought to the island of Themyscira to enslave the Amazons, and their Queen came upon her where she was hiding in the shadows, shooting down warriors with poisonous bullets, and she’d seized her by the throat and lifted her up as if she weighed nothing...

“Is everything all right? I can finish up here, Kara can help me with these last few things if...”

Queen Hippolyta as a doting mother? As the mother of _Martha Kent’s_ baby? Isabel stifles an amused laugh at the thought of Clark Kent’s horrified reaction, and she turns to look a worried Lena Luthor in the eye.

“No. No, it’s all right. It’s wonderful, in fact, I just—I think I need to go…”

* * *

When the House of Mystery appears over Kent Farm, Diana is ready for a wise-cracking exorcist to waltz out its front door and start annoying every dead and living thing in sight. Bit instead, a young woman leaps down from the House’s upstairs window, carelessly tossing her long, braided hair over her shoulder.

She and Zatanna had fought side by side in the uprising against the demons, a war that was eventually won when her Amazon Queen mother appeared and led the souls to victory. It seems fitting, then, that the magician would be the one to bring her the strangest of news, and the cutest photographs she’s ever seen...

_Donna Troy of New Themyscira, Daughter of Martha and Hippolyta, Queens of the Underworld._

“I know it’s not polite to ask questions about that, but how on _earth…?”_

Zatanna has never met Lois before. She likes her immediately.

“They say she was sculpted from clay and brought to life by the Pantheon of the Goddesses. Rumor has it that Hera herself was at the... conception? Swearing in ceremony?”

“I mean, she’s _adorable…_ she doesn’t look anything like them, though. It looks like they adopted a baby from China...”

“I’m sure that was on purpose,” Zatanna says with a casual shrug, pointing over Lois’ shoulder at the happy baby’s toothless smile, wishing she could poke those chubby cheeks. She’d taken the photograph herself, and Donna’s little fists are moving toward the camera, as if to reach through the paper and grab them. “I mean, when the Queen comes back here, what’s she going to tell these people, that she got another baby from her relatives in Minnesota?”

“Come to think of it, you actually don’t look much like your mother, Diana…” But Lois’ voice trails off as she realizes that the Amazon has wandered off into the field of snow, clutching her piece of parchment in both hands. She had received a different message than the rest of the world: her announcement is accompanied with a handwritten letter from her mother, filled with sweet kisses and reassurances that she still loves her little sun and stars…

_“Princesa.”_

The invisible plane has landed upon the roof of the House of Mystery, and Isabel stands before her, hair still tied up in a messy bun from packing up her office all day. She is holding her announcement in her hand.

“I can’t believe… a _baby.”_

Diana’s voice sounds faint in her own ears, faint and uncertain, as if she’s on the verge of an emotional outburst, but unsure if it’s in joy or longing or distress.

“Are you all right?” Isabel says mildly, but with a note of caution, as if she knows that these are uncharted shores for someone who grew up as the only child on an island of adult women...

“Of course I’m all right, I—I’m happy for them. I am happy, and I will do all I can to make this world safe for her.”

For her _sister._

She had used that word over and over in her childhood, it was the title all Amazons used to address one another. And yet, it felt different when it was traded between Hippolyta and Antiope. There was something deeper, something stronger, something more infuriating; a wink, a nudge, a shared connection that Diana rarely saw outside of romantic dalliances.

“There’s no shame in being shocked, Diana,” Isabel says briskly. “You can refuse to feel jealousy like a normal person, but you _are_ allowed to be surprised.”

But Isabel’s touch is gentle as she lays a hand on Diana’s elbow, and her presence, here, halfway around the world, is comfort enough.

“I’m not jealous, Isabel, truly. I just… I wish I could be there,” she says, her voice quiet, looking down once more at her photograph of the laughing baby. “It seems wrong, somehow, that I am not at the Queen’s side for this.”

“Perhaps you are right where you’re supposed to be. Did your mother say whether Martha would—” 

But there’s the snap of cloth in the wind, and they both look up to see Superman hovering overhead, his own letter and announcement and photograph crumpled in his hands.

“I see you’ve heard.”

“Do you _mind?_ Just because you can fly does not give you permission to crash into peoples’ conversations...”

But Diana rests a hand on Isabel’s shoulder, and the chemist marches away without softening her scowl. Lois calls to her from the porch, and Clark lands beside Diana with a quiet _thump._

And for a long moment, they stand in silence together.

“My mother must be so happy.”

“Mine as well.”

“Then we shall be happy for them, Kal-El.”

Clark stares over the dark, snowy fields, the land he grew up on, the empty house now filled with strangers.

_People hate what they don’t understand…_

“It’s strange.”

“How so?”

Clark doesn’t look at her.

“My… my mother couldn’t have children,” he finally says, his voice halting. “And after my father died, it was just the two of us. We depended on each other, supported each other.”

Diana looks steadily at him through the dark. The shower of snow that had started to fall at sunset is beginning to lighten.

“I don’t understand it, I…” His voice trails off as he glances down at the photograph in his hand. It shows Martha holding a sleeping baby, and even though her gray head is bent to press a kiss to the newborn’s forehead, her beaming smile and wet cheeks are obvious. There is another hand supporting Donna’s head, and a muscular arm wrapped around Martha’s waist, although its owner is outside of the frame…

“But I love my mother. And I will support her.”

“You’ve changed,” Diana says mildly. Clark winces.

“I thought she would come to her senses once she came back to Earth. I thought she had been brainwashed, like they did to me.”

“New Themyscira is not Apokolips, and my mother is _not_ Darkseid,” Diana says, an unexpected edge to her voice, and Clark takes a step back.

“This is new,” he says quickly, raising his hands. “It’s new for me. But I’ll do better. I… my whole childhood—her and my father—they were happy. They were happy together, we all were, the three of us. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“But it _did,”_ Diana says sternly. “And they have found happiness, together. And we will not take that away from them. We will welcome Donna Troy into our families and our hearts, because we _love_ them. She is our sister, Clark. She will be treated as such.”

Clark glances at her, and all at once, Lex Luthor’s face flashes into his mind… Lex, back when they were friends, and he would constantly bemoan about his adopted sister’s wasted talents, about her dedication to her charity work, her organizations for helping people… maybe Lena Luthor would have already been haunted for life, growing up as she did in the Luthor family, but the way Lex treated her certainly didn’t help; in fact, he likely made it a hundred times _worse,_ testing her and teasing her like an experiment...

“You’re right.”

The image of the sleeping baby fills him with strange feelings: confusion, disbelief, jealousy—but Diana is right. Donna Troy might be here by sunrise, and they will both need to be prepared to welcome her into their lives with open arms, which is no less than she and their mothers deserve…

“I—I can pick up some champagne somewhere, we should celebrate, all these people who are here.”

“Sure, as long as you get lost afterward,” Diana says with a small smile. “Lois and I are having a _girl’s night...”_

* * *

Martha doesn’t want to share.

But she supposes it comes with the “falling in love with a Queen” territory.

After Antiope and the entire Amazon army have departed from their beach house, they try to keep some semblance of peace, putting off the welcoming ceremony and the palace for as long as they can, staying in, getting to know their baby, and falling into the routine as parents. There are sleepless nights and fussy feedings and struggling to perfect the art of swaddling their little wiggle bug in her blanket, and then there’s her sweet baby smell, her giant head that still needs to be supported, the way her mouth opens like a cavern when she yawns or cries, her adorable little nose and tiny fingers and toes… Martha can’t get enough of her, she just can’t stop looking at her, whether she’s asleep or awake or somewhere inbetween. Clark had been a little screamer, keeping her up at all hours, and she would hold him and imagined the traumas he must’ve gone through, hurtling through space—but Donna is the happiest little baby she’s ever seen, curious and restless and bright, nothing less than the daughter of the Sun… 

And then there’s that.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d thought that she would ask Hippolyta for a baby, and the goddess would hand her a baby, and then go back to ruling. But she couldn’t have been more mistaken, because Hippolyta is there at every turn, and in the first few weeks, it almost feels like the woman is stepping on her toes, and Martha has to keep herself from clutching at her daughter every time the Hippolyta comes near… and there are angry words, stressful words, words that she doesn't mean, but she can't stop from falling from her mouth any more than she can stop the tears from spilling down her face… 

Apparently it is not only baby girls who need naps, sleep, food.

 _I’m not used to this,_ she admits on the morning of Donna’s welcoming ceremony, rocking her baby as she paces up and down the hall, trying to calm her down before the guests arrive. She keeps giggling and squirming like it’s playtime, and it’s _bedtime._

“You are not used to what?” Hippolyta murmurs, stroking their daughter’s big head, and pressing soft kisses against Martha’s neck. A past version of Martha might have been embarrassed at this very public display of affection, but the Amazons milling around setting up the throne room don’t seem to notice.

“I don’t know—not… not being the favorite.” It sounds terrible, but it’s true. In Smallville, she had been Clark’s mother, the peacemaker of the family, the one both he and Jonathan could turn to when they had troubles, but now Hippolyta has a daughter to steal her attentions, a daughter who will be wise and strong and powerful like her, and Donna… Donna has a mother who is a beautiful warrior goddess, and Martha knows she can _never_ compete with that...

“You will always be my favorite.” Hippolyta’s voice sounds so sincere that Martha’s heart skips a beat, but she gives her wife a dismissive smile, nudges her affectionately, and nods toward the end of the hall.

“You can tell them to start. I just hope they’re not expecting her to be awake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: I have a BIGASS world that I built with my bare hands in a little monster of a fic called Justice For All, AND I’M NOT AFRAID TO USE IT (I’m also aware that literally no one likes it when I do, but too bad, I worked way too hard getting all those plotlines to line up, and I refuse to just discard all that worldbuilding :P)
> 
> Fun Fact II: There’s at least one canon universe where Donna Troy is Japanese American, and there's no reason why, in a diverse society like the Amazons, the default should be white (which… I mean, the 2017 movie does a lot better than it could've, but there's still more diversity in Diana’s group of men than on actual Paradise Island, so... also, I could've used at least 15 more minutes on Themyscira, but I digress).
> 
> Fun Fact III: Oh, this one is fun! I headcanon that Zatanna and Constantine met when they were students at Hogwarts, hence the moving photographs that Zee takes and brings to Lois and Diana. And there was a quip somewhere in Shazam about Harry Potter, so it’s canon that his world exists in some form in the DCEU!
> 
> Fun Fact IV: I’ve decided on longer chapters, leaning somewhere toward 3k instead of 2k. If you’ve already made it this far, I figure I won’t lose you by now just because I talk too much ~~or will I~~ Plus, the more I lean toward longer chapters now, the more flexibility I have for the second half of this act, which is where the fun really starts!
> 
> Fun Fact V: Thanks for reading!!!! :D


	42. Lucky Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donna's Reception/The Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Some angst at the end

Martha never liked being in the center of attention.

But she supposes that _also_ comes with the “falling in love with a Queen” territory.

_“You must be my lucky star…”_

Donna is being fussy, woken early from her nap by the hubbub, and the only thing that calms her is Hippolyta’s breast or Martha’s singing—and in Martha’s opinion, only one of those things is remotely ideal in a crowded room…

“Bahhhhh, _ahhbphg.”_ Donna is bouncing impatiently, her face scrunched up into a grumpy expression at the fact that she’s trapped in her mother’s lap instead of in her cradle or the living room floor of their beach house. Her voice echoes embarrassingly across the room, and Martha ducks her head, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s wrinkled forehead.

“Donna, Donna, Donna…” she whispers, rocking her slightly to no avail. The hall is filled with reverent murmurs, like a museum or cathedral, and Martha feels almost self-conscious, whisper-singing her daughter’s favorite song to get her to calm down as yet another couple approaches the throne and bows low. Hippolyta greets them by name and they hand over a wrapped gift and generously wave at their new Princess without commenting on her tantrum.

_“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight.”_

Donna finally snuggles against her chest and closes her eyes once more, and Martha breathes a sigh of relief. She’s been such a good little girl up until now, just the most perfect baby, and Martha would hate for her to get one whiff of city life and suddenly become difficult.

Although, it may not be Donna who’s being difficult in a minute, because there are _so_ _many_ dead people, and the line of well-wishers seems neverending...

Martha Wayne saunters up to their thrones looking like she walked right out of a 50s noir film, a mink pelt wrapped around one elbow, and Celia—who is wearing a three-piece suit—wrapped around the other. They coo over the baby and flash their blinding teeth before presenting their unwrapped gifts: a little baby fedora, and a large bottle of strong whisky. _That one is for the ladies,_ they say with secretive smiles that make Martha uneasy, but Hippolyta tsks at them, her eyes sparkling at their antics, and they grin and melt into the crowd once more. Antiope gives Hippolyta a questioning look from beside the throne, but the Queen only rolls her eyes, settles the tiny hat onto Donna’s sleeping head, and signals for the next guests to be escorted forward…

Some time later, the entire population of the Trench ooze their way in, their milky eyes shielded against the bright lights, unseeing as the other guests scatter, eyes wide with fear and amazement… they bend as one and present Donna with sunken treasure, curious fossils, necklaces of sharp teeth, and Martha watches in amazement as the baby—who is now awake—giggles in delight and flops her arms at them, absolutely fearless in the face of the horrific, terrifying monsters… Hippolyta nudges Martha slightly, as if she can hear her unsavory thoughts, or perhaps her racing heart, but the Trench have already departed, and Donna is squirming once more in the new satin dress Hippolyta had ordered from the tailors for this occasion, and maybe she would be happier in her goddess mother’s strong arms, but Martha is loathe to let her go, even as Donna’s little feet kick at her.

_“My Queen… My Lady. She is beautiful, Your Majesty.”_

The sun is beginning its descent, and the pillared hall is awash with golden light. The Queen’s Guard had changed so smoothly and subtly, Martha doesn’t even notice that the figures behind the thrones are different. They stand tall and unsmiling, ready at a moments notice to dispatch anyone who may threaten their Princess or their Queens. 

_There’s the Princess now, can you see her_? A woman in a long, embroidered robe is hefting her own daughter up into her arms so that the child can see Donna’s restless figure. The girl’s eyes are wide with fascination, as if she’s never seen a baby before, seen someone who looks like her…

And then two more figures are stepping forward, and Martha’s breath catches as she takes in their long capes, dark hair, the strange material of their tunics, the damningly familiar symbol gleaming on their chests…

“Well met, Lara,” Hippolyta says warmly, greeting the woman. She’s tall and elegant and almost inhumanly beautiful, but when she bows low and turns to look at Martha, the breath sucks out of her lungs, because she looks like him, just like him...

“My Queen…” The woman’s eyes are already watery as she extends both her hands. “We haven't met before, but—”

“I know who you are,” Martha says, her own voice choked as she reaches out as well, and Lara-El envelopes her hand with her own.

“I cannot thank you enough for what you did.”

“Well, we tried our best,” Martha says, suddenly feeling so simple, so rough and rural in the face of this regal woman. Clark should’ve grown up as a little princeling on Krypton, with these noble beings as his parents, but instead…

“Mrs. Kent.” Clark’s father has turned to her now, and his eyes are twinkling as he looks down at Donna’s sleeping form in her arms. “Congratulations. I cannot tell you how happy we are that the gods have blessed you as they blessed us.”

“She is beautiful,” Lara says softly, and Martha looks up and catches a glimpse of the mother’s longing in her eyes, and all at once, she stands, barely knowing what she’s doing, and she says, “Hold her. That is, if you would like—”

Lara-El does not need convincing. Donna giggles in her sleep as the Kryptonian scientist gathers her up into her arms and coos softly over the baby’s giant head.

“Look, Jor-El,” she whispers, and the solemn man is already looking, and his eyes are glimmering with distant memories…

_Krypton’s first natural birth in centuries…_

“Thank you.” Lara seems reluctant to hand her back, but she settles Donna back into Martha’s arms, and her fingertips linger against Donna’s cheek before she pulls away. “Truly, I am so grateful—for everything.”

And then they are gone with a last murmured _Your Majesty,_ and Martha has to blow her nose and dab at her eyes before the next guests are escorted forward...

It is night. The walls of the throne room are lined with teetering piles of gifts. They will be opened sometime later, and the _number_ of thank you cards they will have to write _…_ Martha hopes there is some magic spell that can help with those, because there is no way she will ever remember all these people, and their names, and faces.

_“She is beautiful, My Queen. My Queen.”_

Donna has fallen back asleep in earnest, her head lolling against the crook of Martha’s arm, and she shifts her into a more comfortable position, grimacing as her sore muscles complain. The line is still moving, but Martha is distracted with smoothing down the lacy dress, keeping the soft folds of satin from tickling her daughter’s chin, with rubbing her own bleary eyes and cursing the moment she agreed to do this... at this rate, she’ll be almost as cranky as Donna when they finally get back home _—if_ they ever get back home...

Hippolyta touches her elbow, nodding deliberately toward their next guest, and Martha looks up and instinctively pulls Donna tighter against her chest, waking her up.

_Jonathan..._

He is standing at the foot of their thrones, his hat in one hand, a wrapped box in the other. She hasn’t seen him since her return, something she realizes with a pang of guilt, but now he’s here and he’s bowing low, and there are others from New Smallville behind him, necks craning, eyes wide at the splendor of New Themyscira. They must’ve all piled into a couple buses after finishing the morning chores and driven over, and all of a sudden Martha feels terribly awkward, like this is a bad dream, a nightmare she’s had, and Hippolyta is beckoning him forward, and his polished dress shoes squeak on the marble steps as he approaches.

“Hello, Jonathan,” Hippolyta says calmly, breaking the silence. He flashes her a grateful smile, and Martha wonders if they saw each other when she was gone. It’s a strange thought.

“Your Majesty,” he says respectfully, and then he turns, and his gaze is on Martha. She darts a glance up at him, then flushes and looks down once more.

“She looks like a trooper.” His voice is hearty, and for a moment, Martha remembers that he, too, wanted a houseful of children, they _both_ had. What would it be like, if their roles were reversed, if he had caught the eye of some immortal god or goddess, and she had to live with the knowledge that he was happy without her, moving on, starting a new family?

Donna is wiggling in her lap, and Jonathan is handing his gift to the Queen: a set of handmade blocks carved with the letters of the alphabet, the sides painted with cute animals and flowers. It must’ve taken him hours to make, and Martha can’t look at him, but she says a soft,

“Come over here and say hello.”

He looks surprised, but steps over and crouches down to look Donna in the face.

“Hey, kid... I’ll be your uncle, I guess.”

“Ahhbph.” Donna’s mouth opens and a little pink tongue pushes out, and Jonathan laughs.

“Well, how about that.”

Donna’s head twists back around and she whines, apparently hungry, and Martha shifts her in her arms.

“I think she likes you.”

He recognizes the olive branch for what it is, and stands slowly, absently passing his hat from hand to hand.

“I’m happy for you, Martha. Truly. And if you need help with anything...”

She looks up at him, then gives a careful nod, and then he’s gone. And Martha bends to kiss Donna’s forehead so she doesn’t have to watch him leave, and Hippolyta doesn’t speak, only lays a gentle, supportive hand on her tired arm, then takes the baby from her, and Martha tries not to cringe as she slips her own tunic off of one shoulder, apparently comfortable with breastfeeding right in front of a crowded room… 

* * *

The last of the guests have finally departed, and Myrrha brings up a platter full of food from the banquet that had been served to all those who paid their respects to their new Princess. There is food from every culture and every century, because Hippolyta may be the Queen over all, but she is a just and generous ruler. Donna has just finished feeding, and Martha tries her best to tempt her daughter with the brightly colored wrapping paper and ribbons and bows from the enormous piles of presents as Hippolyta latches her armor into place once more. But Donna curls up almost immediately against Martha’s chest, apparently unimpressed.

“I wish Clark could’ve been here to see you, to meet his new sister,” Martha murmurs, watching as Hippolyta directs a band of Amazons to forklift a pile of presents away to some other location. She hadn’t thought to tell him that they were planning on having a baby, and if the way he reacted to her and Hippolyta is any indication…

“Ppfubph,” Donna says, as if to tell her to _stop worrying,_ and Martha gives a little laugh.

“But who can resist this _face?_ This _cute_ little face?” Martha coos, pressing a kiss to the little fuzz of hair covering her baby’s head, smiling as Donna yawns widely and closes her eyes, full of milk and tired of the whole proceedings.

“Are you ready?” Hippolyta has come up behind her, one hand carrying a heavy bag of food from the reception, and the other outstretched to rest against Martha’s sore arm. “...do you want me to take her?”

“I’m okay,” Martha sighs, halfway between a grimace and a grateful smile. The Amazons are waving goodbye, and the throne room is almost empty. The black chariot is waiting outside. Hippolyta looks questioningly at her, and Martha raises her tired head, leans in to kiss her wife’s cheek, then says,

“Let’s go home.”  


* * *

Life falls into a routine, and within its comforting cadence, time flies.

When Martha first arrived in the Underworld, everything was so _new._ There were times when she had no idea what she was even looking at, whether it was the roaring waterfalls pouring over the granite cliff faces, the glowing jars of water that lined the pillared halls of the palace, the night sky that seemed so much brighter and deeper than even the open sky in Kansas. But the longer she stayed, the more the Underworld became familiar: no less a world of wonder, but no longer a spectacle to gawk at. 

But with Donna in her lap, her wide eyes unblinking, everything feels new again. Martha sits with her in her gardens and points out the flowers and shrubs and trees and rocks and gnomes and fish and bees and butterflies; she brings her out to the lake and shields her young eyes from the dull glare of the sun, takes her into the waves in a little floating basket, lets her trail her fingers in the water and stare as the ripples of light move over the sandy floor; or she and Hippolyta will take her out for a picnic, and they lie together on a quilt spread out over a picturesque mountainside, or a sunny meadow, or a cool forest floor beside a creek, or the pillared entrances to the temples...

_Look, Donna. Look…_

Martha feels like she’s seeing everything again for the first time, it’s like she wants to share everything with her, teach her everything, and every day, Donna does something new, she gets bigger and stronger and sillier, and Martha can’t help but get a lump in her throat as Donna giggles and kicks and awkwardly waves her fists, or snores softly against her chest, peaceful and content. It’s everything she dreamed of, having a baby, and even though there’s a nagging feeling in the back of her head reminding her that they must, she doesn't want these days to end.

* * *

Hippolyta requires that they take a vacation every four weeks. 

Time in the Underworld isn’t run by a calendar, but every four weeks, the moon is full, and that is when Antiope arrives, her fierce grin softening fractionally as her sister hands her a full baby bag and a bulky baby carrier with a baby inside. 

_“There will be no training, Antiope. If I hear a single hint of a rumor...”_ Hippolyta had growled the first time they left Donna in her aunt’s care, but the general had laughed her proud sister off and winked at Martha as she sauntered away, looking like the strangest paradox in the world: this ruthless Amazon warrior weighed down with modern baby supplies and a carseat... but then Hippolyta had taken Martha’s hand and shut the front door, and she’d decided that it wasn’t a paradox, it was the most perfect thing in the world…

It’s during one of these monthly vacations that the bubble of happiness finally bursts. 

They’re in an abandoned castle, and Hippolyta had hunted and roasted an entire boar for their dinner—a rare treat of fresh meat, and Martha had foraged around the overgrown gardens outside the castle walls, and she’d returned with a basketful of vegetables and roots. She’d chopped them up and arranged them beneath the carcass that Hippolyta had dressed and rubbed with spices, and then she had watched in fascination as the hot fat and gravy dripped down to season her little potatoes and carrots and leeks. It’s the most wonderful meal, hearty and delicious, and the meat is so tender and the skin so crispy.

And then Hippolyta packs away the leftovers, and Martha nibbles on the remaining cracklings even though she’s not hungry, and when the Queen comes back, she presses a kiss to her greasy lips and lies down beside her before the fire, and Martha snuggles against her, content…

And that is when Hippolyta chooses to open her mouth and ruin everything.

_We must decide what to do with Donna when you return next month..._

* * *

It’s too soon.

It can’t have been any longer than a year since she returned, it can’t be more than a few months since Donna awoke, she’s still a tiny baby, helpless and unintelligible, not even crawling yet—

_She is alive, Martha Kent. She is governed by the time of your world, not the Underworld._

Martha hasn’t smoked since high school. She barely even drinks, growing up as she did, the granddaughter of a devout preacher. Maybe if she were in her beach house, she would’ve stormed into the kitchen and thrown together a blob of bread dough to punch and knead, but there’re in the cold stone walls of an ancient castle, and there is nothing to exert her frustration upon except the mountains of wrapped pork that Hippolyta had just finished neatly packing away. And so Martha stomps off and grabs the biggest container from the cold room and marches back to the long wooden table, opening it and settling down to eat her way through, as if she’s a rugged ranger who’s wandered into this hall at a late hour, and she hasn’t had a square meal in weeks.

Hippolyta’s elegant figure lies for a while longer beside the fire, then she rises with the grace of a goddess and the next thing Martha knows, she’s setting a long loaf of bread and a flagon of wine at her elbow.

“The meat is too rich to eat alone,” she says quietly, tearing the bread into smaller chunks and setting them onto her plate, as if Martha’s a child who needs her food broken up into bite-size pieces…

“I’m not going,” she says through a full mouth. Hippolyta says nothing, but she rips the bread apart with a little more vigor than before.

“I don’t care. I’m not doing that again,” Martha says, swallowing and reaching for the wine. “So you can tell those people that I changed my mind.”

“Martha Kent…” Hippolyta sighs.

“Don’t you sigh at me,” Martha snaps. “My life is _here,_ we’re a family now. I’m not leaving that, what—what kind of monster would force me to leave now that we have a baby? She needs me, she needs her mother’s milk, you can’t raise a living baby on _Underworld_ milk, you… you can’t expect me to leave her, and not see her for a year, you...”

“Martha,” the Queen says softly, but Martha turns away and stuffs more food into her mouth, determined to ignore the familiar strain in the back of her throat, the pull of tears threatening to spring into her eyes...

“I’m not leaving,” she mumbles again, as if it’s final. She tears open a hunk of bread and stuffs some slices of roast pork into it, barely aware of what she’s doing, her hands working almost automatically from her years of making sandwiches for her men... if only she’d known then what that sweet little boy would eventually do to her— “I’m not going anywhere. We’re not going to talk about this anymore.”

But she knows that they will: they’ll talk and talk and talk until Martha is worn down and finally gives in and stops being selfish and does the _noble_ thing, and she’ll have to spend a year separated from her wife: her yellow sun who gives her dark world life and meaning, and _Donna…_ her lucky star, her little miracle baby from the goddesses... 

“She’ll forget me.” The words sound hollow in her ears, and her hands keep stuffing greasy pork into the ripped bread, not even caring that scraps of meat are spilling out the other end onto the table. She has to keep… she has to keep moving, she has to keep doing _something,_ because if she stops and looks Hippolyta in the face, if she stops and allows herself to think, she’ll crumble, and she can’t crumble, not again, not after last time, she can’t go through all that shouting again, she can’t—

“She… she won’t even know who I am when I come back, I’ll be a stranger to her, I…”

And she finally dares a glance at Hippolyta’s face, but the woman is looking away, and there are tears in her eyes, and Martha gapes at her, because she may be a nearsighted human who only thinks of her own pleasure in the present moment, but Hippolyta is a Queen who looks always to the future and well-being of her people, and she had already forseen this moment—the three of them on the shores of the Styx, Donna crying and Hippolyta standing stone-faced, and Martha screaming in rage as she is dragged away from them both—her light, her _life,_ and forced back to the land of the living...

_“Hippolyta…_ you can’t, you can’t make me do this, you—you would never be so cruel...”

But she would.

Because Martha knows that if it meant that one life would be saved, one death would be delayed, one battle would be negotiated to peace, one war would be avoided, Hippolyta would think nothing of her own suffering, and as her wife, Martha is expected to do the same. It’s just another part of the “falling in love with a Queen” territory…

“You can take her with you.” Hippolyta’s voice is soft, heartbreaking. And Martha remembers that she, too, grieved when they were separated. If anything, she grieved _more,_ spending centuries upon centuries wandering the Asphodel Fields, weeping to the empty sky. “She is your daughter as much as mine. She should learn the ways of your people, just as she is learning the ways of the Amazons.”

But Martha shakes her head, and Hippolyta looks wounded as Martha pulls away and pushes herself off of the hard bench, walking to one of the pitchers of water sitting by the fire, and plunging her filthy hands into its warm depths. Hippolyta steps quietly up behind her and silently hands her a bar of soap that she’d extracted from one of their packs in the corner. And Martha focuses on scrubbing her skin clean, knowing that she’ll be using her hands quite a bit later tonight… 

“We’ll talk about this over breakfast,” she says at last, ducking her head to swipe her face across her sleeve. “All right? We’ll go up to the roof and look at the stars and have a nice night, and then tomorrow, we’ll have a nice breakfast and it will be raining and I’ll shout at you, and you’ll be stubborn, and soon enough, I’ll be dead and you’ll never _dare_ to speak of getting rid of me again. All right?”

Her voice is trembling.

Because the Queen’s question was not whether she would leave or not. They both know the cost of them being together, and last time, that price almost destroyed them both… but it doesn’t mean that they needn’t pay it again, and again and again until Martha finally dies.

But Donna is alive. And by her birthright, she can walk between both worlds as easily as Zatanna or Napi or John Constantine—those mysterious figures whose blood runs with magic and the dark. And maybe one day, she should learn to walk amongst the living…

“Are you sure?”

Hippolyta’s voice jerks her out of her mishmarsh of thoughts, and she looks up to see the goddess gazing down at her, the most beautiful woman in the world, the kind of woman people die for, go to war for, change history for. The kind of woman that leaves men speechless, and makes women trip over their own feet, and turns her own living heart into a quaking pile of jelly.

“I mean, I should’ve known there’d be consequences,” she says ruefully, letting her eyes wander over her lover’s gleaming armor, her bulging muscles, her strong, perfect body that is dangerous and alluring enough as is when dressed, but when _naked..._

_“Martha Kent,”_ Hippolyta whispers, slipping her arms around her waist, and Martha turns her head to meet her with a long kiss, and then she slides her newly-clean arms around her neck, pulling her closer, and then the Queen has swept her off of her feet—literally—and is carrying her up one of the many turrets to the roof, where they will watch the shooting stars and make love until the sun rises once more, and Martha will fall asleep in her wife’s arms, dreaming of the day when she takes her last breath and will never again have to say, _until death, do we part…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact I: My second job started up again this week, and it has been helllllll so if this chapter’s rough around the edges, it’s because I’ve been distracted! (But now that the first week is over, things should settle down and be less stressful and I can get back to the more important things in life aka writing fanfiction *fingers crossed, knock on wood*)
> 
> Fun Fact II: I know the saying “until death do us part” means death is the only thing that can separate us, but it can also work as “until death, do us part” as in, we’ll be parted until death, and that’s much more interesting.
> 
> Fun Fact III: This act is going to have some very quick turnarounds. The first and second acts kind of took their time getting things into place, but now that the board is set, we’ll move at a pretty quick pace (Spoiler alert, but all this talk about death? If Martha Kent is in her early 60s, getting there is going to take multiple decades, and so far, only one (1) year has passed in this story. So fasten your seatbelts!)
> 
> Fun Fact IV: Hippolyta will never understand Martha Kent’s fascination with breasts since the Amazons go topless (or fully naked) more often than not, so breastfeeding in public isn’t an issue for her at all (and… it really shouldn’t be an issue, anyway).
> 
> Fun Fact V: I know Madonna is a little... late? 80s? for Ma Kent, who's more of a 60s/70s kid, but I'll assume she knows it from her hours of working at Sears. :P


End file.
